The Blighted and the Bold
by Morninglight
Summary: Merging of the Diamondverse and Dutyverse. The thug with the heart of gold. The noblewoman with the cold eyes. The apostate with the sweet smile. The pickpocket with the smart mouth. The assassin with the saucy smirk. They're the heroes who stand between Ferelden and the Blight. Maker help us all.
1. The Diamond from the Dust

Note: So I've had Brytta and Mara bitching at me for rewrites of their stories, so in order to keep _The Dutiful Daughter _up, I've decided to merge the Dutyverse and Diamondverse as I could see Duncan having enough time to recruit both ladies and some others. AU elements to the Origins and storyline, obviously.

…

**The Diamond from the Dust**

"You're a sweetheart, Bryt. Thanks for doing up those buttons."

Brytta, fingers light and dexterous despite having an almost preternatural talent for violence, finished buttoning her sister's gown. From Rica's pleading to Beraht, she had a potential patron in sight and only needed to seal the deal. If the man could resist the sweet-faced redhead in fine brown linen with polished mabari's eye buttons (hand-carved by Brytta), then he should be sent to the topside Chantry because his dick was obviously not working. Too many of the noble hunters ran around in fancy gowns that mimicked the Noble Caste's propensity for 'the gaudier, the better', only their brands distinguishing them. Rica, with her quiet beauty, stood out amongst them because instead of poor silks and fake jewellery, she wore garments that were good quality – the best Brytta and Leske could steal – and simple adornments of sand-polished semiprecious gems.

"If this nobleman isn't in love with you after today, he's been hit in the head one too many times by a darkspawn," she assured her big sister.

"I hope you're right," Rica sighed. "Beraht's on my back after Elsye got a silk gown from her patron and she isn't even pregnant."

"I'll go beat up a few more lyrium smugglers. That tends to sweeten his mood." Brytta gave her sister a quick peck on the top of her head, careful not to muss the bun braided with more mabari's eye beads. "I'll see you tonight, hon."

"You too," Rica responded with a weary smile. "Unless my patron decides to keep me for the evening after Princess Sereda's feast."

Brytta grunted, more familiar with the noblewoman's reputation that she wanted to be. "There's someone you hope gets eaten by darkspawn," she muttered as she turned away.

Of course, her mother Kalah was drunk and of course they traded vicious barbs at each other as Brytta passed through the kitchen. But as always, she'd be back with moss wine, because Ancestors knew that the dusters were familiar with the necessary oblivion of cheap alcohol.

Leske was outside with her mission from Beraht. Typical search and execution; Oskias was dead before he could draw his weapons, Brytta's dagger buried in his soft topsider gut. Given that they were so damned close to being free of the shithole, she delivered the lyrium as commanded, pocketing her share of the silver with a curt nod. Beraht might be expecting to be called 'uncle' and living in the Diamond Quarter, but it would be Leske who joined them as 'cousin' and Brytta who intended to put the crime lord and his second Jarvia into the lava personally. No one would hang a threat over Rica's head and Ancestors knew that the nobleman she snared would likely _love_ to have a pair of personal thugs with no sense of honour and basic human decency to get in the way of what needed to be done.

"Beraht is fucking insane," she muttered once they'd left the weapons' shop. "Toying with the Proving? They fucking destroyed House Tethras for doing that; what do you think they'll do to us Dusters if we try?"

"In short, don't get caught," Leske advised laconically. "Besides… Bryt, there's a Grey Warden here. He's looking for more Wardens. Apparently there's a Blight going on."

"Explains why there are more sword-castes sitting on their arses drinking," she observed dryly, passing Oghren the weaponless Warrior sprawled out in a puddle of puke and lichen ale. Seriously, he should go to the Deep Roads or something; a Duster had slightly more dignity than him, because they knew they were shit beneath the deep lords' feet.

"Yes, well, every few years the Wardens come here and once or twice they've taken a Duster," her friend pointed out as they neared the Proving Arena. "Shit, Bryt, you get put into the Memories on your own account instead of… well…"

"Because Rica spawns. Got it." Not that Brytta gave a rat's ass about darkspawn, but some real fucking respect would be nice. A Grey Warden lived in their compound in the Diamond Quarter, could conscript the king's sons… and Bryt had to admit the blue and grey uniform looked pretty sweet. "Here's to hoping he isn't some copper-plated nug-fucker who'll flay me for glancing at him."

Proving Guards weren't the brightest because they let two evil-looking ruffians in patched armour through with nary more than an admonishment to not give the fighters bad luck. Given that they were to make sure one particular fighter won, Brytta was sort of obligated to fuck over the rest.

The Grey Warden was in the Proving Commons, obviously not too good to hobnob with the peasants. Being human likely had something to do with it; his back was to her, but his big frame carried his ornate silverite plate and blue-grey surcoat easily. It looked to be fancier than the average Grey Warden's armour.

"Dare you to go talk to him. Say 'Welcome to Orzammar, ser. May I drink your bathwater?'" Leske taunted.

"Fuck you, I will. Make yourself useful and complete the job," she told him.

Leske grumbled but obeyed; two Dusters in one room were as obvious as two nugs rutting in the Diamond Quarter. Screwing up her courage, Brytta approached the Warden as he turned from some drunken fan discussing a decapitation way too avidly for even her comfort. It was always the miners who were the most into blood and guts.

Front-on, he was… pretty damned easy on the eyes. Dark as polished surfacer wood, silver-threaded black hair pulled into a long queue, the features of a battered heroic statue and the fathomless gaze of one who'd looked into the abyss, the Warden was eyeing her with curiosity and appreciation. "There's always one who manages to sneak in," he observed. And nug-shit on a stick, his voice… It was like velvet: deep, dark, resonant. Brytta would be happy to do whatever he wanted just so long as he kept on talking.

She raised her chin defiantly. "Well, Warden, it's your lucky day. Don't bother with any of the Warrior Castes because you've found your recruit."

"Is that so?" he asked amusedly.

"It is. Brytta of Dust Town at your service. Need a darkspawn battered? Just say the word. Need an unorthodox way of acquiring tithes? If I can't do it, I know someone who can. Want an adoring hanger-on? I know I'm not as pretty as a noble-hunter, but hey, I can talk intelligently about the best way to gut someone."

The Warden was openly grinning, shaking his head. "If you have half the fighting ability as you do the ability to sell yourself, Brytta, I am definitely interested." He rummaged in his belt-pouch and produced an enamelled griffin token. "Show this to the Diamond Quarter guards and they'll let you in. I'll be happy to test you tomorrow."

Brytta tucked the token into her belt-pouch as Leske came up, face troubled. "Thank you, Warden…"

"Warden-Commander Duncan at your service," the dark-skinned man said with a respectful bow.

"Well, you're practically a noble!"

"Hate to interrupt your flirting, Bryt, but we have a situation," Leske muttered in Duster dialect. "Everd's drunker than your mother in a moss wine shop."

"Shit." Brytta smiled sunnily up at Duncan. "Sorry, business calls. I'll catch you tomorrow."

"I look forward to it."

Everd was… well… in a sorrier state than her mother and that was saying something. That was when Brytta had the most crackbrained idea ever conceived of by a Duster in the history of Orzammar: put on his armour and win the Proving. If she could win… Welp, Duncan could save her from Shaperate wrath and make her a Warden, and she could attend Princess Sereda's feast and find an appropriate noble for her sister if this one didn't work out. Oh, and shiv Beraht with zero consequences.

What could possibly go wrong?

…

Duncan leaned back in the portable stone chair reserved for Grey Wardens on the nobles' dais, cup of expensive Orlesian wine to hand, and found himself preoccupied with the Duster who boldly approached him in the Proving Commons. _Brytta._ In the language of the dwarves, it meant 'Diamond', and she certainly was one in the rough. Young – probably in her late teens – and already hardened with the wiry muscles, scarred hands and hard gaze of an experienced killer. With the jagged scars which raked her round face and the prominent brands on cheek and across forehead, she was likely one of those Dusters who found trouble as easily as moss wine. Yet there was a certain sweetness lingering in the extraordinary malachite-green gaze; she still dared to dream, to hope that life could be better. Her friend, a swarthy dwarven male with black braids, looked to be competent enough to test as well.

Today's big contender was a young cocky Warrior Caste named Everd. Duncan always came away with two or three recruits from Orzammar because the dwarves were sturdy veterans of fighting darkspawn with a survival rate of twice humans and thrice elves. Only the Anderfels humans had similar success with the Joining.

The Proving Master ambled over to Duncan and took his traditional seat, smiling at the Warden-Commander. "Everd will make a fine Warden," he observed. "Cocky but skilled."

"I hope you're correct," Duncan answered. "I will likely be looking at all the Castes for recruits."

"Not the casteless, I hope. They don't deserve the honour."

The half-Rivaini grunted sourly. "We have the equivalent of Dusters topside. I was one before I was Conscripted."

Wisely, the Proving Master didn't push the issue but instead called for Everd to face his first opponent of Mainar.

Everd wore heavy grey iron armour but carried a veridium axe in one hand and an iron dagger in the other. It was said that he could fight with several different weapons, but something about his stance hinted at the feint-and-dodge style of a rogue instead of the stand-and-fight of a warrior. Words were exchanged by the duo – said to be bitter rivals – before they launched into combat.

It was a massacre. Everd fought without honour and mercy, using groin and knee kicks, feinting and following up with brutal underhanded blows, dodging Mainar's battleaxe with a rogue's grace. The veteran collapsed within five minutes, armour dented so badly he'd need to be cut out of it, and was carried off by the chirurgeons.

The Proving Master delivered the accolades and Everd bowed his head graciously. Duncan sipped from his cup thoughtfully.

Next was Adalbo, Champion of the Journeyman Division. The battle was similar in brevity and brutality. Everd was living up to – and exceeding – his reputation. If he won one more fight, the man was a surefire recruit. Duncan could only imagine how devastating he'd be with proper Grey Warden training against the darkspawn.

Third was the Silent Sister Lenka. The rogue survived thrice as long as her male compatriots, scoring hits that drove Everd back, until the warrior unleashed a vicious headbutt. The iron grey faceplate crunched into Lenka's nose with such force that the woman collapsed, face a bloodied ruin. Duncan could already tell she was dead.

The Proving Master gasped in shock. "I didn't know Everd was capable of such carnage," he said in awe. "He must truly wish to join your ranks, Warden-Commander."

"Oh, he will be," Duncan confirmed. "But let him have this final battle. I hear the bets riding on it are astronomical."

Giving him a vinegary look, the Proving Master rose to his feet to announce the last combatant that Everd would face. But before he could speak, a drunken, dishevelled man stumbled onto the Proving Grounds, mumbling incoherently about it being his turn to fight.

"Guards, remove this man!" ordered the Proving Master in disgust.

"…Proving Master," one of the guards said nervously, "That's Everd."

"…What?" The old dwarf looked down into the arena, eyeing the fighter within intently. "Then… who is the person in the armour?"

"Whoever they are, they're recruited," Duncan said, raising his voice pointedly.

"Yes, yes, of course, Grey Warden," the Proving Master assured him before commanding the fighter to remove Everd's helmet.

"Welp, might as well," the fighter said in a distinctly feminine voice. She pulled off the bloodied helm to reveal a mass of messy auburn curls and a branded face that glared defiantly at the crowd. "How's that, Casted? A fucking Duster won your fucking Proving!"

Duncan stroked his beard to conceal his grin. _Brytta._

"You casteless whore!" spat the Proving Master. "You have defiled the Proving Grounds. Guards, take this… filth… away!"

Duncan stood, clearing his throat. "I'm invoking the Right of Conscription. This woman belongs to the Grey Wardens."

"Normally I would oblige you, Warden-Commander, but she's violated centuries of tradition, made a mockery of ancient customs. An example must be made of her."

_"Right. Of. Conscription,"_ Duncan repeated with a growl. "If you make an example of her, I can guarantee Dust Town will revolt. She's made herself a symbol."

"We've put down Duster revolts before," the Proving Master responded dismissively.

"As I recall, denying the Right of Conscription is treason," noted Prince Bhelen Aeducan, who had come in during Brytta's series of victories. A sweetly beautiful noble hunter hung on his arm, amber eyes fixated on the Duster in the Proving Grounds. "Besides, a Duster Warden would throw the casteless a bone and subdue their discontent for a little while."

"Your _progressive_ attitude is well known to me, Prince Bhelen," observed the Proving Master snidely. "But I will… respect… the Right of Conscription."

The old man turned to the guards who were slowly advancing on Brytta. "Halt! Duncan of the Grey has Conscripted this… creature! Let her spend her life against the darkspawn as penance!"

"Her name is Brytta," murmured the noble hunter softly.

"You know her?" Bhelen asked, looking sideways at her.

"She's my sister, Prince Bhelen. And I'm not surprised she'd pull off a crazy stunt like this."

Duncan felt an edged smile curve his lips as he beheld the Proving Master shaking with rage. "If I understand the laws of Orzammar correctly, anyone who becomes a Grey Warden is raised to the Warrior Caste if they aren't already a member."

Bhelen didn't bother hiding his grin. "Oh yes, indeed. As are her family."

The Proving Master's response was not fit for one of his exalted station. But there was nothing he could do but announce the laws of Orzammar which applied to this situation. Normally Duncan wouldn't have bothered, but he intended to make a point. Wardens were worthy of respect, no matter whence they came.

He hoped it would be one that stuck.

…

Rica slapped Brytta and then hugged her. Leske was too busy grinning like the deepstalker that got the nug. Brytta still couldn't believe that the plan born of desperation to escape Beraht's rage had actually worked.

King Endrin had been less than impressed, but swayed by Bhelen's silver tongue and his obvious friendship with Duncan, confirmed Brytta's rise to the Warrior Caste. So long as she lived, her family would be Warrior Caste. She intended to live long enough to see Rica bear Warrior Caste kids so she remained so.

Once the nugshit was over, Duncan commanded her and Leske to the Grey Wardens' estate in the Diamond Quarter, a steely glint in his eye. "Tell me the real reason why you faked being Everd," he commanded.

Brytta blinked, seeing a man more ruthless than Beraht could ever be, and obeyed. When her explanation was done, the Warden-Commander turned from her to look over the Commons from his study window.

"I have heard of Beraht. Merchant Caste with fewer morals than a Dust Town drunk. Can he cause trouble for the Order?"

"Not if we kill him," Brytta immediately responded. "Give me your promise you'll take Rica and Ma to the surface and we'll finish him tonight."

"'We'?" her friend Leske asked flatly. "Bryt, he can't touch us on the surface. Who knows, he might even find us useful allies."

She glared at him. "I'm not going to have that bastard hang shit over Rica's head, Leske. If you won't come with me, I'll do it myself."

Duncan looked over his shoulder grimly. "If you fail in this, I will deny involvement. Are you certain?"

Brytta grinned savagely at the Commander of the Grey. "I'm certain. Beraht needs to die."

Duncan turned back to her, dark eyes hard. "You have the chance for a… more honourable life… and you'd piss on it, piss on _me_, for some petty revenge."

"Beraht will hound her for revenge," Leske admitted unhappily. "She cost him over a hundred gold today."

Brytta didn't know Duncan knew such coarse language. But then he turned on Leske, growling, "Help her. Or I'll give _you_ to Beraht."

The ruthless threat made Leske blanch and even Brytta flinched. She remembered his statement at dinner about Wardens being compassionate to their friends, inspiring to their troops and ruthless to their enemies. She decided she'd stay on his good side.

"We'd better get going before word reaches Dust Town," she told Leske. "If we hit hard and fast, we could take out Beraht _and_ Jarvia."

"That's a damned good idea," Leske agreed fervently. "I better survive this or I'll come back to haunt the pair of you as a rock wraith."

"Pfft. We'll be fine." Brytta sounded a lot more confident than she felt. This was probably the second-biggest crackbrained idea ever concocted by a Duster in the history of Orzammar.

…

Duncan thought he'd seen the best of Brytta in the Proving Grounds. But seeing the trail of carnage leading from a secret entrance to a particular Smith Caste's shop to what had to be the heart of Beraht's headquarters was… unnerving. He caught glimpses of Brytta, now clad in her comfortable patched leather armour again, demonstrating what had to be the greatest amount of raw talent for violence he'd ever the _privilege_ of witnessing. In the close, dark confines of Dust Town, she was nothing short of demonic.

Leske was adequate, hanging back with a salvaged crossbow and picking off the ranged thugs while Brytta killed most of the rest. Duncan would put him through the Joining nevertheless because quite frankly, they needed lots of warm bodies fast. But the dwarven female was the real diamond here and the only one he'd reveal himself to save.

Finally they reached Beraht's personal quarters, Brytta kicking in the stone door with relish. Startled curses in both male and female voices followed. "You fucking Duster nug-sow!" screamed a hoarse woman.

"Takes one to know one, Jarvia," Brytta responded sweetly. Then the twang of Leske's crossbow cut off Jarvia's voice in mid-curse.

"My family will see yours dead, slut," Beraht hissed. "You think Rica's safe in the Aeducan household? HAH-Urrkkk!"

"You know, it's a pity you were Conscripted," Leske observed dryly. "With Jarvia and Beraht dead, we could take over a significant portion of the lyrium trade."

"If that's the path you want, Leske, then be my guest," Brytta answered softly. "But keep in mind this will happen to you when someone like me comes along, sick of all the shit and wanting blood."

He heard the solid thud of a thrown weapon hitting soft rugs. "If you don't want to be a Warden, you're already part of the family. Stay and protect Rica if you want. I'm sure Bhelen could use a pet thug."

"You know, I'd think you'd be happier about all this," Leske said confusedly. "Your family's out of Dust Town, Warrior Caste in their own right, and Bhelen's banging your sister. You've even gotten revenge on Beraht! You should be more pleased about it."

"This was unfinished business, Leske. Now… Now I can be a hero. Save the world. Didn't you hear Duncan and King Endrin talking? It's a Blight. And I know that it means a break for us dwarves, but… If they destroy the topside, they'll come back for us. I don't want that to happen to Rica."

Duncan pushed open the door and entered silently. "If you wish to remain as part of Brytta's family, Leske, I'll retract the Conscription on you. To be honest, I only recruited you to keep Brytta because I know she isn't the type to abandon her friends to a terrible fate."

The swarthy male looked relieved. "Thank you, Duncan. Bryt's the best of us all. She should go and do… hero stuff."

"Hey, you protect Rica, you hear? Because if you don't…"

"Yeah, yeah, you'll kill me." Leske heaved a long-suffering sigh. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow," Duncan said quietly. "I… was going to take the Deep Roads, but I received word of a potential recruit in Highever and another in the Circle Tower, so we'll travel topside instead."

"Sounds fun," Brytta said, concealing her fear beneath her typical bravado. "I'll make my farewells to Rica tonight then."

"That would be wise. I cannot guarantee you'll come back any time soon." He couldn't bring himself to tell her that she could very well die during the Joining. She had the almost perfect mix of pragmatic ruthlessness and genuine compassion he liked in his recruits, not to mention an extraordinary talent for fighting. If he had the chance to train her properly, she would become a legend amongst the Wardens.

_I only hope that one of my recruits will have a talent for leadership,_ he thought grimly as he watched the ever-pragmatic duo loot Beraht's bedroom bare. Because all bets were off in the Blight, he would have to assume that he could die very soon and train his people accordingly.

Otherwise humanity might finally be extinguished beneath the weight of a tainted horde. And no Grey Warden could allow that to happen.


	2. The Lady with the Cold Eyes

Note: Chapter 2 is up. I'll be running through the Origins before getting into the shenanigans. Mara Cousland is autistic, but I won't be pulling out the dweomer syndrome crap I ran in her Gamesverse incarnation but instead going with half-Tranquility, which will be poorly understood in Thedas. I'm also having Alistair present as Duncan's squire because it seems right. Also, because he was a dog boy, he can speak mabari. ;) Trigger warnings for violence against innocents.

…

**The Lady with the Cold Eyes**

It was tradition that on the eve of war, the women of Highever would weave crowns of the laurels that grew wild around Castle Cousland for their men in anticipation of their safe and victorious return home. Mara Cousland finished the last one, meant for Fergus, and added it to the silver platter where her father Bryce's already sat. She looked at her crowns, neat and precisely braided, and sighed. Her focused mind was good for something other than picking locks or recalling seemingly useless trivia.

Oriana leaned over and patted her hand gently. "It will be well," she assured the younger woman but truly trying to convince herself. Even Mara could hear it in her softly accented voice.

"Of course," Mara said mechanically. She'd been trained in the basic courtesies via rote and while no one could accuse her of being heartfelt, at least she was complimented on her 'old-fashioned manners'.

Today she was wearing a simple brown linen dress at the request of her mother, who'd invited Bann Loren's wife Landra and only son Dairren to Castle Cousland. The latter would squire with her father at Ostagar while Eleanor, Oriana and Mara would be left to manage Castle Cousland in the Teyrn's absence. Everyone talked about a quick, decisive victory. Mara kept the negative knowledge gleaned from a dozen ancient tomes in her grandfather's library to herself; people didn't like to hear uncomfortable truths, and they most _certainly_ didn't like to hear it in her uncompromisingly blunt tone.

Her brother's Antivan wife managed a smile. "You should go see if your father wants to see you. He did say something to Fergus about wanting to speak to you."

"Good idea," Mara agreed, trying to conceal her relief. On their kinder days, the other Fereldan nobility called her 'tomboy' because of her obliviousness to the finer points of highborn society. She just didn't see how dressing in silk and sucking up to the King improved things for the teyrnir when her study of agricultural treatises from the University of Markham had increased crop yields by a third and her interest in fine mechanics had allowed her to improve the locks on the treasury door. Knowledge, not manners, was the noble's truest weapon to protect their people.

"Your mother also wants you to stop by the atrium and meet Dairren," Oriana added with that sly little Antivan smirk. "I hear he's read _The Dragons of Tevinter._"

"So has Oren," Mara countered dryly. "It doesn't mean he can talk about it."

"You are terrible and you will die an old maid," her sister-in-law said severely, shaking her head.

"That's me, preparing for spinsterhood and books," she answered lightly. "Better that than a man with fewer brains than Cu."

"Dairren seems reasonably intelligent, clean and sociable," Oriana assured her. "Keep an open mind, alright?"

"Fine, fine," Mara agreed wearily. She knew it was her duty to marry another noble for her family's sake, but so far neither she nor the male highborn of Ferelden were impressed with each other.

It was an easy walk from the ladies' solar to the Great Hall, Mara getting absently saluted from the Cousland guards as they prepared to head south for Ostagar. She noticed two strangers standing near the gate guards' barracks, talking animatedly, and realised that they were wearing the blue and silver of the Grey Wardens. Both were young and fit, but one was an auburn-haired dwarven woman with casteless brands and the other a tall, whiskey-haired man who looked vaguely familiar. Given that her father was likely conferring with Rendon Howe, who'd try to set her up _again_ with Thomas, Mara figured she could spare a bit of time to greet the Wardens.

"-And so I slit his throat for threatening my family," the dwarf finished as Mara neared. "Duncan popped up after that and pretty much dragged me up here because he said there's a potential recruit here."

"Remind me to stay on your good side, Brytta," the male observed ruefully before looking up at her with eyes the hue of West Hills amber. "Uh, ma'am. Hi! Can I help you?"

Mara smiled, knowing the expression was stiff. She'd never met a man who'd stuttered on meeting her before. It was awkward. "Forgive me if I'm interrupting anything," she said formally.

"No, totally not interrupting anything," the male Warden babbled. "I mean, aside from my train of thought because you're really, really pretty…"

Her jaw dropped open as Brytta buried her face in her hands despairingly. Mara had seen herself in the polished steel mirror in her room every day since she was old enough to tend to her own needs. The Cousland features of her father and the Waking Sea ones of her mother had combined oddly to produce overlarge blue eyes routinely described as cold in a fine-boned oval face topped by fine ash-blonde hair she'd cut short last year. She shuddered when she recalled her mother's frustrated tirade and father's disappointed gaze.

"Ooo-kay. I'm shutting up now. I'm sorry," he apologised, flushing with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not! Pretty is something I'm not usually called," Mara admitted hastily.

"Really? Because wow, if you're ugly, the pretty ladies here will explode my brain with their beauty," he responded, smiling at her hopefully.

"Don't mind Alistair. He's fresh from the Chantry," Brytta interrupted. "Hey, not to be a bitch, but Duncan wants his armour cleaned while he's kissing the resident noble's ass."

"The Warden-Commander's known my father for several years," Mara told her quietly. "My father tithes regularly to the order because the Couslands honour the sacrifices the Grey makes to protect us."

"Nug-shit on a stick, you're a noble!" Now it was Brytta's turn to babble. "Shit, I thought you were a Duster or something because of the brand on your face. And that dress is waaaay too plain to be a noblewoman's. And no jewels."

Mara chuckled dryly. "Given my druthers, I'd be wearing my usual leathers. But Mother's found _another_ suitor for me and…"

Alistair's face closed off, a flash of bitterness in those golden eyes. "Yeah, sorry about that Milady, I should get to cleaning Duncan's armour. I'm his squire because I'm Junior Warden. You know how that is."

He walked into the gate guards' barracks before Mara could say anything, leaving her to look hopelessly at Brytta, who simply shrugged helplessly.

"Please tell him thank you for calling me pretty," she said softly to the casteless woman before turning towards the Great Hall. Her lack of manners had offended someone who'd given her a genuine compliment _again…_

At least she could still do her duty to her father without screwing _that_ up.

…

"Milady Coldeyes is gettin' close to that Dairren fella," smirked an Amaranthine guard as he diced with a friend for stakes Alistair suspected didn't belong to them. It took the Junior Warden a few seconds to realise they were talking about Mara Cousland. He focused on burnishing Duncan's armour to beyond mirror-gleam to avoid punching them.

People like Mara weren't unknown to Alistair. The healers at the Circle and Chantry were trying to figure out what made them half-Tranquil for a more humane version of the Rite; many joined the Chantry because they tended to find comfort in order and routine. Obviously, Mara being noble meant she had other options.

He couldn't believe other people missed her prettiness. Those huge eyes were like big pools of water he could drown in – until he'd made an idiot of himself by storming off like a brat when he found out she had a suitor. Brytta, now snoring in the bunk across the room, delivered a thank you from the Lady Cousland for calling her pretty. Alistair felt lousy for making her sad just because he was momentarily bitter about what an accident of birth had done to him.

The armour was finally polished. It was a relief to escape into the sultry summer evening, make his way to the kitchen and help himself to a bit of cheese. With a smile, the cook gave him a piece of Highever Blue the size of his hand. "Milord Cousland heard you liked cheese and since you're a Warden and Duncan's squire, he ordered we leave this out for you."

"Mmmmf," Alistair responded, which was thank you in cheese-filled-mouth-language.

A soft chuckle forced him to swallow the rich cheese quicker than he should; choking, tears filling his eyes, he was forced to cough it up as Mara Cousland pounded him heavily on the back. "Are you alright?" she asked concernedly when he was able to breathe again.

"Yes," he assured her, wiping his eyes. Why was he such an idiot around her?

Nan the Cook bustled up to Mara with a broad grin. "Is it true, lass?"

Alistair dropped the spit-covered cheese with a sigh, nearly crying when a big mabari with the knowing glance of a pack leader devoured it. He barked happily, and recalling the years of sleeping with the hounds, Alistair returned the woof.

The mabari barked at Mara, looking pointedly at Alistair, and Lady Cousland smiled sadly and shook her head. No doubt the hound had smelt his… uh… admiration of Mara and was trying to match-make. But Nan's excitement and the headshake said it all; she was going to marry this Dairren.

"Uh, congratulations on your betrothal," Alistair said softly. She didn't exactly look ecstatic but she didn't look unhappy either. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she and Dairren just got on.

"Thank you," she answered with a trembling smile. "He's… a good man. Handsome. Knows about books. Far more sociable than I…"

"You'll need a social lion at Court," Nan agreed. "At least he's not bothered by your ways, lass."

"Yeah…" Mara sighed. "I should go. I just needed some air."

She smiled shakily again, nodded politely, and left. Her mabari whined sadly and looked at Alistair as if to say, "Stop her!"

Alistair decided he should seek his bed. Even though they wouldn't be leaving until the day after tomorrow, there were a dozen little things that Duncan expected him to do while he had the chance. The Warden-Commander was a kind man but did hold Alistair and even Brytta to exacting standards.

The former templar had to chuckle at the thought of the scrappy little dwarf. She'd decided he needed to learn about the facts of life, which included how to cheat, lie and steal, and that Duncan needed a lady. Which, of course, should be her. Alistair could actually see the two of them together if his Commander ever let go of his reserve. Brytta was young but she was older than Alistair by a couple years, he gathered. Definitely a decade or two older in experience.

He was almost to the barracks when someone pounded on the gates. It had to be the late Howe guards; the Cousland fighters opened up. Alistair shrugged and entered the barracks. Hopefully he'd be able to get some sleep-

The hairs on the back of his neck rose as Chantry-honed senses detected offensive magic. From the smell of ozone, it was lightning. The two Amaranthine guards stood up and drew their swords.

"Well, Warden, nothin' personal but we have to kill you," one of them said. "If you stay still, I'll make it nice and easy."

His friend gurgled and died as Brytta buried her iron dagger in his back. Alistair took advantage of the other's distraction to smite him; the man was weak-willed, so he staggered back, giving the templat enough time to grab a sword.

It descended into complete anarchy after that and Alistair's world narrowed into three objectives: find Duncan, find Mara and get out of here.

…

Mara wasn't sure how much time she'd lost after Dairren died and she'd managed to fend off his attackers with a dagger, but she was injured as she went to her mother's aid, her father having stayed up with Rendon and Duncan. She picked up a shield and slammed it over the head of a heavily armoured knight. They'd obviously been assigned to make sure the Couslands all died.

It was Eleanor, always practical, who told her to go and armour herself up when the enemies were dead. Mara obeyed, grateful her mother had the battlefield experience she lacked, donning the gilded steel chainmail all the Couslands owned. She didn't think about the time they were losing, she only followed orders. In stressful situations, she always did.

They stumbled into Fergus' room and found a dead Oriana sprawled protectively over an equally dead Oren. As Eleanor cried out in horror, Mara vomited at the sight of blood congealed around the boy's headless neck, his blue-green eyes staring accusingly at them from a foot away.

"We-We need to get weapons from your father's chest. And the Cousland sword," Eleanor finally said fiercely. "And I will use them to slit Howe's lying throat myself."

_Why would he do this?_ Mara asked of an uncaring Maker, wiping her mouth. Things would only get worse. And knowing Howe, the first person to be eliminated would have been her father.

"Only if I don't get to him first," she said aloud, voice hoarse with grief. She felt, oh how she felt, and she wanted to crumple into a foetal ball and cry. But she had no choice. Not when there was a castle of people sworn to her to protect.

A crash came from the outer hall where the guests slept. "Landra!" Eleanor cried, heading for the door.

"They killed Dairren first," Mara informed her tonelessly, forcing herself into the cold place where she could act but would pay with emotional storms later.

"Oh child-" The door opened to reveal a Howe retainer collapsing to his feet with a dagger in his back.

"Good, we got here in time," Alistair said, sounding relieved as Brytta yanked out the dagger. "We need to go. It's bad out there. We don't even know if Duncan's alive."

"He will be. Takes more than some two-bit sword-castes to kick his ass," Brytta said reassuringly. "You guys ready to fight? The main fighting's in the hall."

"We need to find Bryce!" Eleanor told them.

"If he's alive, Mother, he'll be in the treasury getting our family sword, in the main hall fighting or in the servant's entrance in the kitchen fleeing," Mara pointed out coldly. "These places are on our path."

"Treasury?" Brytta's eyes glinted avariciously despite the peril of the situation.

"Focus, Brytta," Alistair said through gritted teeth. "Let's go."

They did, the four of them capable enough to overcome the few Howe soldiers on this side until they reached the treasury. Eleanor went straight to the chest containing the Cousland Sword and the Shield of Highever. Mara looked at the two Wardens, noting that while their armour was adequate, Alistair's grey iron sword was battered and Brytta needed better daggers. "Take what you need," she said before going to the chest they kept their portable wealth in. Eleanor was a better shieldwoman and Mara would be damned before she let Howe profit more from this.

Howe soldiers, obviously sniffing for loot, burst into the treasury. It was Alistair who held the door while Brytta ranged amongst the militia like a wolf amongst sheep. The former was the technically better fighter but the latter had the greater capacity for raw violence. Mara settled for peppering enemies with arrows as her mother armed herself properly.

They went from the treasury to the main hall, flushing out pockets of Howe troops and overcoming them. Alistair was the main focus of their attention, most of Howe's men dismissing the women as a threat, and it was he who was injured the most. But they made it… only to find Ser Gilmore being overwhelmed by a house mage and several archers.

"There's the mage!" Alistair hissed. "Brytta, play distraction. If I can get close, I can Silence her."

Mara and Eleanor went to support Ser Gilmore and the few remaining troops. But Mara knew that once those front doors and the makeshift barricades breached, Castle Cousland was lost.

Once the mage and archers were dispatched, Gilmore removed his gauntlet to push back sweat-drenched hair and catch his breath. "The castle is lost," he said flatly. "The last I saw, Teyrn Cousland and Warden-Commander Duncan were fighting back-to-back on their way to the servants' entrance."

"Come with us," Mara urged. They needed his sword-arm to go… wherever. And she couldn't leave a good man to die.

"No, Lady Cousland. My oath is to protect your family with my life and I'll keep it," Gilmore responded sadly. "Go and string that bastard up on a tree for me."

"I'll use barbed wire," she promised softly, a surge of grief nearly overwhelming her cold state. Damn Howe. Why? What had they done?

"Thank you," Gilmore said before joining the men holding back the front doors with brute strength. "Maker with you all."

"And you, Ser Gilmore," Eleanor said softly before darting to the other side of the hall. "Come, Wardens, we must flee!"

Brytta and Alistair exchanged indecipherable looks before nodding. As a group, they had a better chance of escaping than on their own.

They fought their way past Howe's seemingly endless men – how was he going to be able to fight darkspawn with the forces he was sacrificing to gain Castle Cousland – and made it to the kitchen. Nan and the elves were dead, Cu at the door whining helplessly. Thank the Maker he'd survived.

But her father was bleeding, his guts showing through the massive wound in his belly, and Warden-Commander Duncan spun around with a pair of bloodied swords in hand. "Thank the Maker and His djinn," the half-Rivaini breathed fervently. "We must leave. Howe's men will almost be through the gates."

"Only way we'll be taking the old guy with us is in pieces," Brytta observed bluntly. "He's a goner, Duncan. I've seen wounds like that."

"We'll get healing magic!" Eleanor protested.

"The Warden… is right…" Bryce groaned. "Duncan… Please… take Mara and Eleanor to Ostagar. Tell the King what has happened."

The Warden-Commander nodded grimly. "I will, Teyrn Cousland."

"Thank you, old friend." Her father's blue eyes sought and found Mara's. "Pup, you must warn Fergus. He's Teyrn now."

"Yes Father," Mara whispered, tears falling down her cheeks as the heartbreak got through the walls she'd erected to function during the siege.

"I'm staying with you," Eleanor told Bryce firmly. "They'll have a better chance of escaping without me."

"Eleanor…"

"Hush, Bryce. Mara will need the best start she can get and that means I'll stay here to kill every last one of those bastards to buy her time."

"Mother!" Mara's protest was a wail but her mother was determinedly unbuckling the Cousland Sword and the Shield of Highever and removing her locket with the pictures of herself and Bryce as young nobles freshly wed in the wake of freeing Ferelden from the Orlesians while her father pulled the Cousland signet from his hand.

"Go, pup. Know that we love you." A crash in the distance warned that the main hall had been breached. "And we're proud of you."

"Please, no! I love you both. I need you!" There was no way she could do this on her own!

Alistair and Duncan took the weapons as her parents pressed their jewellery into her hands, closing her fingers around them, Mara unresisting because she was wailing too much. Finally, Brytta struck her just beneath the ear, driving her into darkness and silence. She never recalled the flight from Castle Cousland.

…

"Look, what happened to the Couslands sucked, Duncan. Howe's a shit from a tainted bronto. But we have to get to Lothering and she's practically a drooling idiot now. Cut her loose at the nearest Chantry, leave some coin, and we can use the rest to resupply. Darkspawn are seriously more important than… all of this."

Alistair carried the constantly weeping Lady Cousland, reminding himself that Brytta came from a background that made Warden-Recruit Daveth's seem idyllic. Mara wasn't a person to the casteless dwarf, only a burden with valuables that could aid the Wardens considerably. But it didn't take a genius to know that if they tried to harm the orphan, her mabari Cu would fight fiercely. Even now the dog was growling dangerously at the oblivious dwarf.

_"She doesn't understand,"_ he told the mabari. _"She comes from a pack where the weakest were left to die by the strongest and no one cared beyond immediate litters."_

_ "My human is stronger than the short bitch thinks," _Cu responded. _"Tell your pack leader to muzzle his bitch."_

There were times when Alistair dearly wished that Brytta had a mute switch like one of those clockwork dwarven musical boxes. The thought of the mouthy dwarf wearing a gag made him cough into his fist a little; it seemed the mabari had a very dry sense of humour.

"Cu says that Mara is stronger than she looks," Alistair told Duncan softly as Brytta walked ahead. "He also suggests keeping Brytta's mouth shut."

"I forgot Eamon had put you in the kennels," Duncan said musingly. "I didn't realise you could speak Mabari."

"Only a little. A lot of it is smells and ear movements," Alistair admitted, shifting the semi-conscious Mara in his arms. He hoped she could walk soon, because while it was romantic for the knight to carry the damsel in distress, it was damned hard on his back.

_"Your accent is decent for a human,"_ Cu assured him.

"Well, it's handy. If someone can explain to the mabari the dangers of darkspawn blood…" Duncan growled a sigh. "Damn Rendon Howe to the pits of the Void. He's ignited a civil war when the darkspawn prepare to destroy us all…"

"The Howes never see past the short-term opportunity." Mara's voice was hoarse but clear. "He probably doesn't even believe it is a Blight."

Alistair sighed with relief, stopping to let the Lady stand on her own two feet. In the two days since they'd fled, she'd done everything mechanically when commanded but otherwise sat on her bedroll at nights, rocking slightly in private torment. He recalled some of the half-Tranquil doing that; the repetitious movement was completely unconscious but it seemed to soothe them. He'd carried her today because she was stumbling with every step from sheer exhaustion.

"If I may be frank, Lady Cousland, the darkspawn concern me more than your family's predicament," Duncan told the ash-blonde woman. "I will take you to Ostagar as per your father's deathbed request, but after that you will be Fergus and the King's problem."

Mara regarded him with an oddly blank gaze. "I understand that, Warden-Commander. Which is why once I have surrendered the Cousland effects to my brother, I will request to join the Grey. I'll be more use killing darkspawn than trying to advise my brother on something he'll already know how to do."

"Wait, what?" Brytta, catching the last bit of the conversation up ahead, stopped walking and turned around. "Don't you like have to marry another noble and have kids to destroy this Howe guy?"

"Her betrothed died at Castle Cousland," Duncan reminded his prize recruit tersely. Alistair had to admit that in his darker moments, he envied the attention the man lavished on the mouthy dwarf. That Brytta was extraordinary couldn't be denied – but until the Joining, she was another recruit.

"So? From what I gather, she wasn't enthusiastic about it." Brytta shrugged. "You cloudheads make no sense."

"Brytta…" Duncan's tone had gone from terse to warning.

"For fuck's sake, she fights worse than Rica. We take the best, Duncan, not some noblewoman who's sad she's discovered life's a bitch."

"I didn't say I was allowing it, Brytta." Duncan looked pointedly at the haunted Mara. "I'll think about it. And it will depend on what your brother and the King have to say."

"Of course, Warden-Commander," she responded in that monotonous tone. Then she looked up at the darkening sky. "We should make camp soon. A storm's coming."

They found a secluded campsite near a small spring. Brytta was assigned to carry water and dig the latrine because she couldn't cook for shit, while Alistair, being a country boy, laid out snares for rabbits. Mara gathered firewood without bidding while Duncan set up their two small tents. While the ladies were away, the Warden-Commander approached Alistair.

"Normally I would have Brytta and Mara share a tent, but I can't see that ending well," the grizzled man observed softly.

"Brytta's not exactly the most sympathetic towards nobles, though Mara was nothing but decent to us," Alistair agreed.

"Whereas you and Mara seem to have a rapport. She needs a friend, Alistair." Duncan sighed, looking across the stream and into the horizon. "Officially, the recruit at Highever was to be Ser Gilmore. He was strong, capable and a reasonably talented military leader in theory. But I'd hoped to recruit Mara as well. Brytta's correct in that she's not the best fighter."

"She's not really a leader, sir," Alistair pointed out softly.

"She's never had the chance. True, she's likely not a general, but Mara has an extraordinary ability to absorb and retain information. I have seen her glance at a book and recite it, word for word, two hours later. Her memory - and the knowledge she's gotten from all those books – is impressive, to say the least." Duncan sighed, stroking his beard. "She's also figured out some key information that is usually only known to Wardens and their seneschals. For instance, she's figured out that… well… it takes a Warden's life to slay the archdemon permanently. She thanked me for the sacrifice I was willing to make for Ferelden, if need be, because of my vows."

Alistair didn't know _that_ about Wardens, but it made a hideous amount of sense. "You're going to put her through the Joining?"

"Most likely not. Some of the people we Conscript are talented in ways that would be wasted if they perished in the Joining, though if things get desperate enough they will certainly be subjected to the taint. The Fereldan Wardens need a Seneschal who has been trained to build and run a household from scratch, one with noble connections and the intelligence to apply knowledge appropriately."

"…Wait. Brytta was chosen for raw fighting talent. That I get. Mara makes sense too. Daveth? He's a niceish guy, but a lousy pickpocket."

"Daveth is half-Chasind. He is what the Korcari Wilders call a 'skin-walker' – he has the ability to communicate with animals. He's also an experienced wilderness scout with a specialty in cold tracking." Duncan's rueful smile edged his mouth. "He also reminds me of myself. I too was recruited off the gallows, though for a crime far more serious than petty theft."

Alistair didn't want to pry. Riordan, Duncan's best friend, had hinted that Duncan had killed someone before joining the Wardens. The former templar figured the victim deserved it, as the half-Rivaini despised careless violence.

"Bethany Hawke is an apostate in Lothering. Her father was a great ally of the Grey Wardens and we've kept a tab on their family," Duncan continued softly, looking around for the ladies. "Her magic is getting harder to contain and her templar-trained brother – Malcolm Hawke was nothing if not thorough in training and Harrowing his offspring - is chafing at the bit to leave Lothering. Garrett, her elder brother, is also a mage but… well… he's a cocky gloryhound little shit who will either become a legend, burn out and take several people with him through stupidity, or both. Beth's a solid, sensible girl."

"Ser Jory?" The Redcliffe Knight with the Highever wife would be devastated to know of Castle Cousland's fate.

"Competent enough to be a Warden if he survives the Joining but nothing special about him," Duncan answered dismissively.

Alistair looked confusedly at the Warden-Commander. "Why are you telling _me_ all of this, Duncan?"

The man's dark eyes were hard as he returned the gaze. "I am old for a Warden, Alistair. If I die, I hope you will be able to take up the slack."

"And if I command anything, Anora will kill me!" Alistair retorted.

"I Conscripted you with Cailan's permission," Duncan answered calmly. "Your brother is quite jealous of you. And if Anora tries anything…" He paused pointedly. "I will Conscript her father."

"Oh, like we already aren't in one civil war already," Alistair muttered as Mara arrived with an armload of firewood.

"That's the spirit, Alistair," Duncan said with a grin.

_Great. I'm going to be sharing a tent with a pretty girl whose parents were murdered because Rendon Howe's a bastard, Duncan's grooming me to know all the Wardens' stuff, and Anora will have twice the reason to kill me! Days like this, I contemplate life back at the monastery!_

If the Maker existed, He was an evil sadistic bastard with a warped sense of humour.


	3. The Apostate and the Nightingale

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I always feel lousy about Bethany dying but since the Hawke for this reality is a Charming/Sarcastic Mage!Hawke, I have to remove her somehow. So… Bethany joins the Wardens! If you're wondering at the randomness of the pairing she's in, blame my imagination of two girly-girls together… ^_^

Also, I can't just believe Leliana, a Seeker, was in Lothering accidentally and the Chantry responds swiftly to many crises – far quicker than they should in a medieval/Renaissance world. So… some minor head-canon.

…

**The Apostate and the Nightingale**

Lothering should have been a trade town with its closeness to Redcliffe and two major trade routes. But Bann Ceorlic had departed for Denerim six years ago "because of his wife's health" and so the village withered like untended fruit on a vine, a quiet sense of hopelessness underlying the sleepy rhythms. The King and his army passing through had stripped the town bare of ripened grain and superfluous offspring. Leliana, Seeker of the Divine, knew that the distant rumours of the Blight would only get worse.

She leaned against the back of the Chantry, braiding snares for rabbits from dried grass. All the food that could be gotten from the land needed to be found _soon_, because unless the archdemon itself arose at Ostagar, the army would mean nothing. The land would rot beneath their feet, the sky poison with every breath, even the sun turn a malevolent red. The Divines' Chronicles were nothing if not descriptive in their tales of the Blight.

_"Cailan has been honest in sharing intelligence with us,"_ Revered Mother Dorothea had told the bard one cold night in the Cathedral of Jader. _"Riordan is more close-mouthed, as suits the Grey Wardens, but the Commanders of the Grey met in Val Royeaux last year and formally donned the scarlet griffins."_

Divine Beatriz, old and dim-eyed but still sharp as a tack, touched the redhead's forehead in blessing. _"We live in an Age of war and strife. This Blight is only the beginning. You seek redemption, my dearest child, and so I will send you on the path towards it. There is a town called Lothering in the south of Ferelden. I do not know _why_, all I know is that you must be there when the Wardens come and offer them the aid of the Chantry. As a Seeker, your amulet will suffice to show your authority. Only the Grand Cleric of Ferelden can gainsay you – and she had better possess a good reason for doing so."_

_ "I think honesty with the Wardens is the best policy,"_ Dorothea added, glancing to where High Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast stood guard at the door so none could enter without the White Divine's leave. _"Riordan tells me that Duncan, Ferelden's Warden-Commander, is a Rivaini Andrastean, so he will honour you. But he will also take a very dim view of lies and trickery."_

_ "During a Blight, the Grey Wardens have the right to requisition any and all Chantry resources according to the treaty we signed when they accepted our spiritual authority,"_ Beatriz murmured. _"I would prefer you keep that to yourself, Seeker, unless it is absolutely imperative. All we need is some Warden-Commander getting the bright idea that Circles are Chantry resources, for instance, and taking control of them."_

Leliana had nodded, bowing her head. _"I will leave in the morning."_

_ "Maker go with you, Sister Leliana, for all our hopes now rest on your shoulders."_

An acorn hit her knee, jarring her from her memories. Leliana looked up to meet the lovely face of Bethany Hawke and found herself smiling. Dark-haired and amber-eyed, she was the sweetest soul the bard had ever encountered, truly shining with the Maker's goodness. Once, Leliana would have held her in scorn. Now, she wished she was as unblemished as the apostate.

Leliana had arrived here two years ago on the heels of a sickness that in a larger town would have been tended to by Chantry healers, both mage and cleric, but instead had been allowed to run rampant until an apostate had revealed himself to heal the ill. Malcolm Hawke had perished from the plague, so the Revered Mother had conducted his funeral herself and allowed the man's family to live in peace on the understanding that the rest were non-mages.

The Seeker knew better. Malcolm Hawke's file within the Chantry archives was extensive: half-Chasind and raised within the Chantry as an orphan, he'd been given to the Circle at the age of ten after his magic had broken out healing the sick. As a Senior Enchanter in Ferelden, he'd been somewhere between the Aequitarians and the Liberationists politically; he'd vanished during a mission to Starkhaven, his keeper Templar Maurevar Carver freely admitting that he'd turned the key because the Maker wasn't served by keeping the best mages in chains. Three years as a mercenary until he met the Amell Leandra and fallen in love with her; an unspecified favour for the Grey Wardens saw him, his bride and their newborn son Garrett settled in the Frostback Mountains until Garrett's own magic broke out. Then more wandering and twins followed until they settled in Lothering several years ago.

Templar-trained Seekers had kept an eye on the apostate, eventually guessing that Bethany too was a mage, but the Grey Wardens had made it abundantly clear the man was under their protection. Grand Cleric Elemena was less than impressed, but Duncan had informed her that they intended to Conscript Garrett or Bethany once they were adults. As the Blight had been confirmed by then, the Divine had told the Grand Cleric to back off… for now.

Revered Mother Dorothea and several other influential Chantry sisters were advocating for greater Circle autonomy as the cost of training and equipping templars was nothing short of astronomical. In a Circle like Diarsmuid in Rivain, there was one templar to every three mages, and the apprentices there had close contact with their families. Arguments about the Circle's relationship with the apostate seers aside, Diarsmuid was the only place where a mage failing the Harrowing was the exception rather than the rule. Apostates like Malcolm Hawke and several Warden-Mages, not to mention scattered reports of the Dalish Keepers and Rivaini seers, were carefully observed to see if mages _could_ remain untainted if given good ties and relationships to keep them from desperation. And Beatriz was _very_ interested in the people known as the half-Tranquil, individuals with a broken connection to the Fade who were still able to feel, albeit distantly, but focus like one of the Tranquils. If more could be learned about them, a more humane form of the Rite could be developed.

"Leliana," Bethany said breathlessly, snapping the bard out of her reverie again. "We need to talk."

The Orlesian studied her friend, noting the dilated pupils and sweaty palms. Bethany was frightened, a rare thing for her as a frightened mage attracted demons like flies to honey. "What is it, _Ensoleillé_?" she asked, using the endearment – Sunny – that she'd chosen for the lovely apostate.

"There are Wardens here asking for me."

Leliana got to her feet hurriedly. She knew about Bethany's magic after being severely sunburned and the apostate instinctively healing her. Knowing the value of a secret, Leliana had revealed her status as a Seeker. Not long after that, they'd become… close.

It wasn't too far a walk to find the Wardens: there were four of them, two men and two women, standing outside of the Chantry speaking to Ser Bryant. Leliana amended that to two Wardens and two Warden-Recruits; neither the casteless auburn-haired dwarf nor the ash-blonde girl in fine gilded leathers had the subtle distance all full Wardens possessed.

"Sister Leliana," greeted the senior templar in Lothering as the women neared. "I see you've brought your… _friend._"

"I have kept the vows of the affirmed," Leliana responded icily. And she had, though she'd stretched them more than a bit because of Bethany's sweetness.

"Mistress Bethany," the oldest of the Wardens, a darkly handsome man with battered features and a pitiless compassion in his black gaze, greeted with a nod. "It's good to see you."

Bethany, who knew within an inch the range of a templar's ability to sense magic, stayed several feet away. But apparently the templars of Lothering were poor at their craft, because the whiskey-haired Junior Warden's eyes widened briefly. Leliana knew something of _him_ too; the Chantry's briefing had been… thorough.

"Perhaps we should go elsewhere, Warden-Commander," the ash-blonde girl suggested tonelessly. "We're blocking the Chantry's door."

"That would be best," Duncan agreed.

Bethany glared at the Wardens before jerking her chin in the direction of the Hawkes' cottage. "Sister Leliana comes with me," she said flatly.

"Of course." Duncan nodded to Ser Bryant before walking to the Hawkes' cottage as if he'd been there many times before. Perhaps he had.

Leliana squeezed Bethany's hand reassuringly. Maker willing, they'd Conscript Garrett; the man's cocky attitude would be better suited to fighting darkspawn than putting his family in danger. But she already knew that it would Bethany's knack for fireballs they wanted, not Garrett's reputed mastery of hexes.

…

"You know, there are good things about being a Warden-Mage," Brytta, who was a dwarven woman who never shut up, told Bethany cheerfully as they left the Chantry. "You can walk into town with a staff on your back, light up a smoke with your middle finger in the direction of the nearest templar, and laugh yourself sick at the expression on his face."

Well, her nonchalant attitude confirmed Bethany's deepest fears that the Wardens were here to Conscript her. On her fourteenth birthday, just before the sickness had come to Lothering, Malcolm had taken her and Garrett aside to explain some of the deal he made with the Wardens to keep them all safe. _"If a Blight comes, Duncan will Conscript one of us,"_ he explained wearily. _"I intend it to be me, my darlings. But if I'm not alive, it will have to be one of you."_

"I never looked at it that way," Bethany answered weakly, gripping onto Leliana's fingers for dear life. The Seeker had come here, knowing that a Blight was coming, and had been so _good_ to Bethany that she'd fallen in love just a little bit.

"See, bright side to everything." Brytta scampered up to join Duncan as the templar Alistair dropped back to speak to them.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "Our mage died last month and… well…"

She looked into those warm, regretful amber eyes and nodded. Something bad had happened recently, hardening boyish features and his resolve, and she knew that though he'd regret Conscripting her, he'd still do it because Wardens did what they must.

"My mother won't take it well either way, Ser Alistair, but I'll tell her it was my choice. That will make it easier for her, Carver and Garrett," she told him softly.

"Please, just Alistair. Duncan rescued me before I took vows," the Junior Warden responded with a shudder. "I'm sorry. I wish we could take your brother Garrett but-" He looked up at Brytta – "One self-centred sarcastic pain in the arse is enough."

Bethany thought of how Garrett would love to do what Brytta suggested. He was always the one who was careless with his magic, his tongue and his temper. She'd given a lot of thought of just turning herself into the Circle when her mother died, because the Maker had given her magic for a purpose. But it would kill Carver and turn suspicion to Garrett…

"I will be coming with you," Leliana informed him. "I won't let Bethany deal with this alone."

"We do fine without Chantry supervision," Alistair began hotly, only to be silenced by a touch from the ash-blonde girl.

"She's a Seeker," she said with that oddly toneless voice. The black tattoo swirling around her right eye with a tracery on her left cheekbone made her already too-big blue eyes the most prominent of her features. "I can see the outline of the amulet beneath her robe."

"I was sent here to help you," Leliana assured the templar. "I have… enough authority… to get the Revered Mothers to listen to you. Maybe even get you some resources, if need be."

Alistair grunted and Bethany got the feeling he wasn't too fond of the Chantry. She was more curious about the ash-blonde girl in fine leathers. Her face seemed stiff, her gestures stilted as if she'd learned them by rote.

"You're Tranquil!" she blurted in realisation. How could the Wardens recruit a mage who'd been cut off from magic and emotion?

The girl's cold eyes hardened and her lips pursed; it took Bethany a second glance to understand that her emotional responses seemed muted compared to most people. "I am told it's called half-Tranquility by the Chantry," she said flatly. "I was born this way."

"I'm so sorry," Bethany began, only to be cut off by a wave of the girl's hand.

"It's alright. I wish I _was_ Tranquil. Then things wouldn't hurt so much." She walked up to join Duncan and Brytta, leaving Alistair shaking his head at Bethany and Leliana.

"For your information, that is Lady Mara Cousland, and her family was slaughtered in a surprise attack by Arl Rendon Howe," he told them coldly. "She's coming to Ostagar to tell her brother and the King what happened."

"The Couslands of Highever," Leliana, who understood politics better than Bethany, breathed in horror. "Howe wouldn't have done that without orders from a superior."

Alistair grunted again and shrugged. "I wouldn't know. All I ask is that you cut her some slack. She already has to deal with Brytta's lack of sympathy."

They reached the old wattle-and-daub cottage which had been home for much of Bethany's life. Garrett was outside, chopping wood, while Leandra hung out the washing. Carver had been conscripted into the army on their way through; Bethany would be seeing him at Ostagar.

It was her mother who saw Bethany with the Wardens first, face going slack with shock. Garrett, who for all his faults truly did love his family, was already calling magic to his hand, fully prepared to hex the Wardens.

"I volunteered!" Bethany yelled. "Mother, Garrett… I volunteered."

"Bethany, you can't fry a fly without crying," Garrett observed sceptically.

She clenched her fists, throttling her magic, as Leandra began to cry. "No, Bethany, you can't go!" she begged.

Leliana looked apologetically at her before turning to Leandra. "Mistress Amell-Hawke, the Chantry has always known about your family," she said softly. "The Grey Wardens, however, made it clear you were under their protection."

"Which is why I volunteered," Bethany ventured in the silence that followed. "Mother… I'm losing control of my magic without Carver around. It's better for you and Garrett if I'm with the Wardens instead of… in the Circle."

"Trust me, the Wardens are a better option than the Circle," Alistair agreed with the flat voice of experience.

"Oh Bethany…" Leandra's face crumpled. "First Carver and now you…"

"You'll keep your mouth shut about me, right?" Garrett asked the Warden-Commander bluntly. "Because if you don't…"

"I promise you, once we leave this place, I will do my utmost to forget about you, Garrett Hawke," Duncan promised with deadpan sincerity. "You were never a consideration for the Wardens."

Mara Cousland, of all people, put her hand to her mouth and began to laugh. Despite the gravity of the situation, the choice she was making, Bethany had to admit that the expression on Garrett's face at the blandly delivered insult was rather funny. She only wished Carver had been around to see it.

_I'll tell him when we get to Ostagar,_ she decided.

Alistair, who seemed close to the Lady, looked relieved. But he turned to Bethany and said, "We'll be staying here for a day or so to rest and resupply. It's been a hard walk from Highever."

_"Make your farewells."_ Bethany could hear the unspoken command. She squared her shoulders and smiled at her mother and brother. "I don't suppose I can ask for apple pie and bunny stew for me and Leliana tonight?" she asked cheerfully.

"You… and… the sister…" Garrett goggled at her, the wind completely taken out of his sails. "You've just destroyed one of my fantasies, you know that?"

"Thank the Maker," she breathed, wanting to kill him. Now she understood why Carver had been so pissed off about him and Peaches!

"Bethany…" Leandra wiped her face. "You can have whatever you want."

"We'll be leaving dawn of the day after tomorrow," Duncan told them softly. "Be ready."

It wasn't until the Wardens had left, Mara throwing a sympathetic glance over one shoulder, that Bethany allowed herself to break down in Leliana's arms once Leandra had gone inside. She didn't want to fight the darkspawn, but if the choice was that or going to the Circle, she knew her family could live with the former.

And through the storm of tears her nightingale held her close, murmuring soothing nonsense, and Bethany knew that at least she wouldn't face the Blight alone. It was her sole comfort.


	4. Interlude: Nightmares

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Interludes so I don't get to Ostagar too soon and get to focus more on characters. :)

…

**Interlude: Nightmares**

Alistair cried out in his sleep.

Mara, her own rest uneasy because her brain liked to replay the events at Castle Cousland when it wasn't kept busy, turned over to see the warrior's face twisted in anguish. She wondered if it was the darkspawn or something else that haunted his dreams; Duncan had implied that Grey Wardens could sense darkspawn but paid for it in several different ways. He didn't seem happy about her desire to join them when her duty to Fergus was done. Brytta was vocal about her displeasure. Even Bethany and Leliana, who'd joined them in Lothering, were troubled.

When Alistair's face contorted in a particular way, for a moment Dairren's agonised expression was superimposed, and she swallowed back the tears. One day she'd known him and accepted his suit because he knew about _The Dragons of Tevinter_ and it would shut her parents up. He'd died, interposing his body between her and the Howe troops. He died believing she cared instead of knowing that she'd only been able to muster up a mild tolerance. Perhaps in time she might have grown to care. But beneath all the horror of Highever, the grief of leaving her parents to die while she fled, was simply relief.

And that made her feel even guiltier. Dairren was a good man. He deserved better.

Her hand reached out to soothe the pain in Alistair's face. The texture of stubbled cheeks and freshly healed scars from Highever felt so very different from the smooth, shaven skin Dairren sported. The men had been of a similar age but one had blushed and babbled, calling her beautiful, while the other had spoken flatteringly of her beauty but more sincerely of the book they'd both read. One had killed to find her, the other died for her.

When Brytta's tactless barbs became too much for her to bear, Alistair deflected the mercurial Duster's attention towards himself, as he had in Highever with enemies. Mara only knew a little about the auburn-haired dwarf, but she gathered the woman's life had been far more traumatic, leaving her pragmatic and unsentimental. Brytta, she was certain, would be sitting up at nights plotting how to kill Howe in inventive ways instead of brooding over the guilt and grief.

Bethany and Leliana (Mara always thought of the two as one unit because their relationship was obviously an established one) were sympathetic. The apostate had taken over the cooking, much to everyone's relief, while the Seeker – who now wore her black and silver armour openly – questioned Mara about what she and Alistair called her 'half-Tranquility'. _"I apologise for prying, but there are people in the Circles and Chantry like you, and others who are interested because if we can figure out what makes a half-Tranquil, we could make the Rite more humane,"_ the redhead admitted.

Mara wasn't sure what to think about that. She knew what the Rite of Tranquility did to mages and why it was necessary but she also didn't like the idea of it being made more… efficient. What if someone got the bright idea to make _all_ mages like her? So she kept her answers terse and polite, treating the questions like another form of small talk.

Alistair's head turned, his large nose hitting her fingers, and he awoke with a gasp. "Mara?" he asked groggily.

She snatched her hand back. "I'm sorry," she apologised. It seemed they always did that with each other, scared of misunderstandings and miscommunication, and Alistair was the one who knew how to give her space. "You were having nightmares and…"

"The joy of being a Warden," he groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head. "Duncan tells me they'll either fade or I'll learn to nap like a cat."

"Is there any way I can help?" She owed him so much.

Golden eyes stared at her through the dim firelight. "You already are," he finally said.

"By waking you up? I'm sure that's _real_ helpful."

"You're here and listening to me. Duncan's got more important things to worry about than my whining, Brytta's as unsympathetic as a shark during a feeding frenzy, Bethany's nervous around me because I'm a templar and Leliana will remember everything I tell her and deliver it to the Chantry on a silver platter," he responded dryly.

"Seekers are… ambiguous at best," Mara agreed softly. "I guess you'd know more about them than I, but I was once approached by Cassandra Pentaghast as a prospective recruit. I, ah, have no vocation, so I declined."

"Most of them are nobles who are too secular for life in the clergy and too sneaky to be templars," Alistair confirmed dryly. "The rest are bards and other assorted rogues looking for redemption."

He leaned forward, tapping the tattoo around her right eye. "So, Milady, where did that come from? I've been dying to ask but it, ah, hasn't been the right time."

Mara closed her eyes, heart aching at the memory. "I didn't really start learning how to fight until I was twelve because my family are warriors and… well… I'm lousy with a sword and shield, barely adequate with a bow, and fall over if I as much as pick up a two-handed weapon. My father had just given up on teaching me the art of war when Fergus returned to Highever with an Antivan merchant named Rennio d'Antiva. It seemed that the man's sister had met Fergus, fallen in love with him, and informed her brother that she'd marry him."

"Let me guess, there was a threat of poisoning in there," Alistair observed with a hint of good humour.

"So I'm told. Rennio is a royal bastard and Oriana is… was… quite lovely. The trade deals we were offered sweetened the deal and since Fergus also loved Oriana, it was approved." Mara sighed, hugging herself. "Rennio took notice of me one day. I'd had little to do and I was… off in my own world."

"Sitting and rocking?" Only Alistair could ask that question without a snide tone.

"Probably. I… don't notice when I'm doing it. I _have_ to keep moving. I don't know why. But he talked my father into letting me train as a rogue for the summer. He wound up spending a year with trips to Denerim to oversee his business with Master Ignacio. I never became a great fighter but I managed enough to keep myself alive."

Alistair grunted. "Duncan has told me Ignacio's a Crow and to be wary of him."

"I've always suspected that about Rennio. But he was kind to me when he didn't have to be." Mara gave a half-laughing sob. "The signs of Howe's betrayal were all there. How did I miss it?"

"You were busy with Dairren," Alistair told her gently. "It's not your fault. Your father and Howe were friends. No one expected it."

"Maybe. I don't know. I wish…" Mara shook her head, eyes closing tighter against the tears. "I learned enough to stop Thom Howe and the others teasing me for being different. I learned enough to place third in a tournament held at Waking Sea when I was sixteen."

"Let me guess: you celebrated, got drunk and got the tattoo," he said amusedly.

"How did you know that?"

"Because I did something similar after sur- the Joining," he said, stumbling over something. Mara suspected he was about to say _surviving the Joining._ It would explain why so many recruits walked into the Grey Wardens and so few walked out.

"You have a tattoo?" she asked, not wanting to press the issue.

"Yeah." Alistair's tenor grew amused with self-deprecating humour. He was fond of that, turning the joke on himself. "It's a griffin."

"Can I see it?" The conversation was distracting her for a moment.

"It's… uh… on my backside," he confessed with a nervous laugh.

"And?" she asked without thinking.

A callused thumb, faintly smelling of soap from the evening's wash, brushed over her cheek, making her eyes open in surprise. His golden gaze glowed much like Dairren's had when they'd gone to bed with her father's tacit approval (if the worst happened, their betrothal would make any child legitimate, and the Couslands would gain control of the Loren bannorn). "Maker's breath, you're beautiful, and I'll gut anyone who says otherwise," he responded fiercely.

Mara was no virgin. Shortly after the tournament and her tattoo, her father had taken her to the Pearl to make her comfortable with intimacy. It had been awkward, though the gigolo chosen for her had been perfectly professional and competent, but she'd gotten through it with no permanent trauma. She and Dairren had lain together that fateful night. But that was duty.

Alistair was… not. She suspected he was a noble's bastard, banished to the Chantry so he'd be no threat to legitimate heirs; it would explain much of his behaviour and why she found him so tantalisingly familiar. His golden-amber eyes and sharply defined features hinted at elven blood, which might very well the reason why he'd never been acknowledged. In Highever, if he'd been a Cousland bastard, he would have been serving as a knight or magistrate or even bann if competent; the sapphire gaze of her family was common there, enough wild oats having been sown by previous teyrns.

His thumb stroked back and forth across her cheek, gently, and the touch made her breath quicken. "I don't want you to take the risk of the Joining," he said fiercely. "Duncan's admitted the order needs a Seneschal and that you'd be perfect for it. We can get fighters any time, but your brains and focus? Not often. Most smart people have other options than the Grey."

Maker forgive her. Her first thought on hearing Alistair was _no more familial expectations._ She knew that Fergus would want her to marry once the mourning period for Dairren was over becase after Howe's attack, the Couslands would need every ally they could get. But the tortured nightmares that Alistair (and presumably Duncan) went through, the horrors she recalled from the books, and even some of Leliana's tales haunted her.

Dairren was duty. Alistair was not. A Cousland always did their duty…

One last caress and Alistair dropped his thumb. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should be giving you space too."

"Please don't leave me alone," she said, tears seeping from her eyes again. Since the horrors of Highever, he'd been the only constant source of comfort and support. Once, she'd wished that she could be free of her family's expectations, be able to live her life as best she could.

Now she'd give everything to have them back.

"I won't," Alistair promised, wiping away her tears. "I'll stay with you as long as I can."

"Thank you." Blindly, she reached out for his hand, twining her fingers around his. "If you need to talk, come to me. I… need to be kept busy. And Maker knows you've listened to enough of my whining."

Alistair chuckled wryly, fingers tightening. "You haven't heard whining until you've met Ser Jory."

They didn't get any more sleep that night but for the first time since Highever, Mara felt something close to peace.

…

Duncan fed bits of whittled wood into the fire as Brytta grumpily arose for her turn at watch. The Duster's indefatigable spirit had been both blessing and bane over these past few weeks; he needed to teach her some basic tact as her relentless efforts to toughen up the other Warden-Recruits was starting to get on everyone's nerves – including his own.

"Great, you've got that 'We need to talk' look on your face," she grumbled as she sat down on the ground. "What is it now? Alistair crying because I ate all the cheese?"

"Alistair will likely kick your arse for doing that, Brytta," Duncan observed with a sigh.

"_Try_, you mean. But good. It'll mean he found his balls."

_"Brytta,"_ the Warden-Commander growled warningly. "Not everyone is as… _worldly_… as you. But Alistair has more experience at fighting darkspawn and according to him, Bethany's one of the three most powerful mages he's ever encountered. Mara has been trained to organise noble households, which tend to include a militia, so she has some theoretical knowledge of small-unit and siege tactics. Leliana, as a Seeker, is someone I don't dare Conscript unless I'm desperate; she answers directly to the White Divine."

Brytta hawked and spat something she'd been chewing into the flames. "Like Beraht had legbreakers and merchants and smugglers, right?"

"…Something like that. I can't have an army of Wardens to fight the darkspawn, but a small specialised squad can be devastated if applied correctly. Alistair has already undergone the Joining; you, Bethany and a recruit named Daveth – who specialises in wilderness scouting – will be taking it at Ostagar. Mara's situation is more… complicated. Even if we can keep her, I will only put her through the Joining if I have no choice because it is simply _that hard_ to get trained seneschals to handle the order's civilian needs."

The Duster grunted. "Can't you just take what you need?"

Duncan sighed. "Wardens aren't as respected topside as we are in Orzammar, Brytta. We require voluntary tithes and for the past few years, tithes have been very, very scarce."

"…So a seneschal makes every bit squeak, huh?"

"Yes. Mara's family was wealthy, but the Bryce and Eleanor Cousland I knew would have made sure their children knew how to handle the lean times as well." He paused and added, "I know you dislike nobles and with due cause. But the Couslands were… _are_… good people. It's probably tearing Mara up inside to know she's had to flee the bannorn relying on Highever to defend them."

She shrugged. "Couldn't tell with those cold eyes anyway. But if it makes you happy, I'll keep my mouth shut a bit more."

"Thank you…" Duncan continued whittling the stick into bits. "How are you coping with everything, truly?"

"Me, I'm fan-fucking-tastic. Word from Rica is that she's pregnant and that Bhelen will keep her on even if it's a girl." Brytta stared into the fire, her small powerful hands gesturing awkwardly. "I thought everything was finished back in Orzammar. But then I remember Beraht's last taunt about her not being safe in House Aeducan and the rumours about that bitch Sereda…"

"I will tell you what I've told Mara. It's out of our hands," Duncan told her gently. "I know you're worried, but chewing out your fellow Wardens will make you no friends."

"So what, I'm the nug-sow that needs to shut up? It isn't my fault Alistair leaves himself open, Mara's clueless about everyday shit and if I hear Bethany and Leliana talk one more fucking time about shoes…"

"Alistair's drawing your temper to himself to give the others a break. Mara's doing remarkably well for her current situation. And if it takes talking about shoes to make Bethany feel better and keep Leliana from harassing me, I'll listen to it all day long." Duncan caught the Duster's chin and forced her to meet his eyes. "You are an extraordinarily talented fighter. With formal training, you will be one of the best ever produced by the Grey Wardens. But you are one part of a team, Brytta. If the others are giving you problems, come to me and I'll sort them out. You are no more or no less than the other recruits in my eyes."

Hurt flashed across her face before she jumped up and ran away. Duncan stared at her retreating figure, wondering exactly what he'd said wrong _now._

"I, ah, take it you turned her down?" Alistair, who'd managed to sneak out of his tent, asked tentatively as he neared the fire.

"I… What?" Duncan stared at the templar, shirtless despite the chill of early morning.

"Brytta's in love with you," he said quietly, squatting on his haunches. "You're the centre of her world now because you saved her from… well… a fate worse than death."

Duncan couldn't find the words. Alistair was kidding… right?

Mara emerged from the tent, overlarge eyes wide. "Why is Brytta crying?" she asked, mildly surprised. "I didn't think she knew how."

_"Mara,"_ Duncan found himself growling. "Her recent past has been as traumatic as yours, only over an extended period of time. I've told her to ease up on you, so I don't want you starting any grief with her, alright?"

The Cousland girl flushed with shame. It was good to see her coming out of her shell and start to consider other people's viewpoints. Duncan… may have been blind with Brytta… but he could see the burgeoning relationship between her and Alistair.

_I should try and find a way to keep it as friendship,_ he thought wearily as he rose to his feet. _I'd love to have Mara as seneschal, but I fear Fergus won't allow it, not when his sister is very well the only coin he has left until Highever is retaken._

"Brytta's a pain in the arse, sir, but you could do a lot worse," Alistair added quietly.

"Alistair…" Duncan rubbed his forehead, trying to figure out how he was going to handle this mess. "She's a _recruit_."

"And you're too much alone," Mara pointed out.

Duncan snarled at the duo, wishing they'd understand the impropriety of it, and stalked off to his tent. If Brytta wasn't up to the watch, then Mara and Alistair could take it. He was old, tired and sick of this shit.

But his sleep was troubled for the rest of the night and not just from the visions of the archdemon.

…

Leliana was unsurprised that she as a Seeker wasn't trusted. People feared her order at the best of times and when they crossed paths with another order with justified reasons for equal secrecy, paranoia was bound to kick in. Alistair, stifled by the Chantry making him a templar when he would have been perfect as a Seeker, knew more than most; Mara knew enough to recognise the amulet beneath her robes; Duncan mistrusted anyone with a habit of prying into secrets; and Brytta didn't seem to like anyone other than Duncan. Yet again she thanked the Maker for Bethany because without the apostate's presence, it would have been a hard existence amongst the Wardens.

"Poor Duncan," Bethany said sadly as Leliana quietly closed the flap after eavesdropping. "And poor Brytta."

"The Warden-Commander has denied himself for so long that he cannot believe he has the right to be happy," the Orlesian observed, crawling back under her wolf-fur blanket. "Brytta, strangely enough, is more heart-whole… Though it will take Duncan some time to fix the blunder he's made."

Bethany nodded with a sigh, cuddling close. They were still taking their time with sex because Leliana found herself enjoying the simple comfort of holding a beloved close more than the act itself. Marjolaine had been a fever in her blood, one that left her dizzied and unable to think straight, but Bethany was the steady warmth of a banked hearthfire.

"We must encourage Mara and Alistair, if nothing else," the bard murmured. "They are _very_ good for each other and there are… other reasons."

One being that if the Theirin bloodline died out, bad things could happen. The Chantry held many secrets and the Seekers many more.

Her sunshine nodded with a sleepy smile. "That's a good idea…"

Leliana sighed happily and cuddled closer. At least with Bethany around, she never got any nightmares.


	5. The Brutal Truth

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Events will more or less follow canon but the details will be decidedly different, including Duncan being a bit smarter and telling the army commanders _why_ Wardens are needed.

…

**The Brutal Truth**

"Maker's breath, Daveth, what are you doing in chains?"

"Grigor thought I'd run or somethin'," the Conscripted thief observed sourly from his place by the Grey Wardens' fire.

"Let me guess, you told him you're from this country," Duncan said amusedly, his surprise vanishing from that battered face as he neatly picked Daveth's chains.

"I fuckin' offered to show these stupid bastards around the place an' Grigor thought I was goin' ta make a run for it." He rubbed his ankles gingerly, wishing he had Duncan's skill with a lockpick. "Now the darkspawn are probably chowin' down on the Highever men an' it'll be your Warden-Cun-"

The big-eyed blonde bit in gilded leathers made a choked noise, face going white beneath her black tattoo. "Don't say that," she begged. "Fergus needs to survive. Please don't say that!"

"Lady Cousland's lost most of her family to a treacherous attack by Arl Rendon Howe," Duncan explained softly, losing the amused expression. "We need to report to King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain, but I thought I'd get the recruits settled first."

"Rendon Howe's a sick bastard, sick as they come," Daveth agreed flatly. "I spent some time in Amaranthine. Milady, may the archdemon eat him an' shit him out over Vigil's Keep."

Lady Cousland took a shuddering breath and nodded gratefully, an inhuman coldness sweeping over her face. "Thank you," she said, voice now toneless like one of those Tranquils.

Daveth stood up and smiled at the others. He figured the Lady wasn't a recruit, but the dwarf with the hard eyes, the pretty buxom bit and the redhead on her arm had to be. "Ladies, my name is Daveth, the best thief in Denerim."

Alistair, the bastard, started sniggering. "Yeah, so good you managed to get caught by Duncan within three steps," he grinned.

Daveth responded with a raised middle finger. "Three more than you would have gotten, Chantry boy," he responded smoothly.

The auburn-haired dwarf woman was grinning broadly. "You and I are going to get on just fine," she said. "Unlike some." Malachite eyes glared at Duncan, who steadfastly ignored it.

"Don't mind Duncan. He's had the stick up his arse for so long he's forgotten what fun is," Daveth assured her.

"Yes, I've noticed." She offered a small callused hand. "Brytta Brosca, the only Duster to both collectively piss off and be raised to the Warrior Caste in one day."

"I'll assume that's important an' be suitably impressed," Daveth promised, shaking it.

"The dark-haired lady's Bethany Hawke, our new mage, and Leliana's both a Seeker and her girlfriend," Brytta continued cheerfully. "You remind me of my friend Leske, only taller and uglier."

"Milady, I never knew the dwarves had Paragons of Good Fuckin' Looks," Daveth observed with a smirk. "Because I assure you, humanity certainly does, an' you're looking at him."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me. Thanks, Daveth," Alistair said sweetly.

Daveth would have said "Fuck you" but Lady Cousland's cold expression stopped him. The thief had no idea what was going on up north, but the old saying about cats, mice and playing came to mind. Instead, he looked to Duncan. "You an' Milady Cousland handle the noble shit. Me an' Alistair can settle this lot."

The gratitude in Duncan's dark gaze nearly floored him. Then the Warden-Commander turned to the Junior Warden. "Alistair, I trust you to brief Grigor on what happened. I can fill in any details you miss later. But we need to get to the King before Howe does."

Alistair nodded, turning from Chantry boy to hard-eyed Warden in a heartbeat. "On it. Bethany, we've got a set of Warden's robes in the supplies chest. The sooner you're in that uniform, the less grief you'll get. Leliana, introduce yourself to the senior Revered Mother here. That rhetoric about the Chantry being willing to help the Wardens needs to be put into practice. Daveth, show the ladies the perimeter of the camp and the pile of darkspawn corpses near the archery range when they're done. Stock up on supplies, exchange your weapons for the best you can get, and rest up as much as you can because tomorrow night, the Joining begins."

"Maker's breath," Bethany gasped. "So soon?"

"Afraid so, Bethany," the templar said sympathetically. "We don't have the luxury of waiting."

"On it, Junior Warden," Daveth said, knowing when he needed to not be a smartarse. Alistair was one of the easiest fellows to get along with in the Wardens, one who'd tolerate a lot more shit than Duncan, but looked like he'd found his ability to command somewhere up north.

Leliana folded her arms. Daveth had never seen her black and silver articulated armour, emblazoned with an eye on the Chantry's sun, before. "Am I to take the Joining then?" she asked in a soft Orlesian accent.

Duncan shook his head. "Not yet. But if you insist on following us into battle, you face a high risk of being tainted and will need it to survive. Do not sneak around or act secretive; Loghain will hear your accent and it will ramp up his paranoia considerably."

"In this, the Seekers have nothing to hide," Leliana answered. "I am here on the Chantry's behalf, not Orlais'."

"I hope so," the Warden-Commander murmured before turning to Lady Cousland. "Are you ready, Mara?"

"Of course not. But it must be done." Daveth figured the toneless voice and cold gaze was her way of dealing with the shitty happenings up north.

"Then let's get this over with. Damn the plans of the fools amongst men..." They left, Mara's mabari on her heels and Alistair sighed, knuckling his eyes.

"You have your orders, people. Daveth, you're Senior Warden-Recruit and Brytta's your second if a chain of command is needed. Come to me if there's any problems." His golden eyes settled on Daveth and the auburn-haired dwarf. "Don't steal. If you need something, it will be gotten somehow."

"Yes, oh mighty commander," Brytta retorted mockingly. Looked like the girl had a problem with her mouth.

"_Don't_, Brosca. Since Duncan forbore to leave any orders for you, I'll remedy that: your task is to listen to the Royal Commander's lecture on darkspawn and then help pile the carcasses onto the pyre. As a dwarf from Orzammar, you have more resistance to the taint than most."

Daveth concealed a grin as the dwarven woman scowled. She should have kept her mouth shut.

"What are you waiting around for? Get cracking!"

_Who the fuck are ya an' have ya done with Chantry boy?_ Daveth wondered as he obeyed.

…

"What are you waiting around for? Get cracking!"

Loghain's hand tightened around his goblet of mead as the bastard's voice rang out, so much like Maric's when the King chose to give a command. The last time he'd met Alistair, the templar was silent and sullen, his golden gaze resentful of the fate Eamon had chosen for him. Anora had done her best to see that his spine had been removed so that he didn't dare even daydream about the Mabari Throne.

It seemed that Duncan felt otherwise. Or the events in Highever had forced the lad to become a man.

When he saw Rendon Howe next, he was going to string up the man by the balls from Fort Drakon. When the Arl of Amaranthine had showed him evidence of the Couslands conspiring with the Orlesians, Loghain had told him to be discreet in how he dealt with the traitors. An accident for the Teyrn and Teyrna would have sufficed to neutralise the plot with Fergus conveniently dying on the battlefield to be certain. That would have left a malleable heir he would have made certain to foster so he grew up right. But Howe's treacherous slaughter had done nothing but made the Couslands martyrs beyond reproach, no matter what evidence was revealed, and left a vengeful Teyrn with more battlefield experience than half the nobility of Ferelden put together.

_Damn you, Howe,_ he thought wearily as a messenger from the King stuck his head inside the tent without leave.

"Teyrn? King Cailan's called for you – and I should warn you, he's pretty livid at the moment."

Loghain grunted and downed his mead in one long swallow. "He isn't the only one. I'll hang Howe by his balls for this."

The messenger, one of Anora's men, grunted. "Might need to beat Lady Cousland then. She wants to hang him with barbed wire."

_Mara Cousland survived?_ Truth be told, he hadn't factored the cold-eyed girl into his plans. She appeared supremely disinterested in politics despite her keen intelligence; rumour painted her as something of a tomboy and scholar. Loghain recalled a gawky girl with brutal honesty that tended to fidget frequently when left to her own devices. She was the dark horse in all of this.

It was a short walk to Cailan's sumptuous tent near the front entrance to the camp. The guard, one of his men, let him inside with a salute. Clad in gaudy golden armour with his father's sword slung across his back, Cailan was slamming his map table for emphasis as Duncan and a slight girl in gilded leathers faced him. "I'll see him hang!" the King promised fervently.

"Once the darkspawn are dealt with," Loghain reminded him gruffly.

"Then it will be a very long time," Mara Cousland said tonelessly. "The darkspawn have retreated from the Deep Roads. Their numbers grow every day while ours lessen. Grey Wardens from the Anderfels to Antiva are converging on Ferelden, because traditionally the archdemon's first target will be the place with the least amount of those who can kill it. The signs are everywhere, this is a Blight."

"Glorious!" Cailan breathed.

"There is no glory in a Blight, your Majesty," Duncan warned wearily. "Only an endless grind of devastation until we can force the archdemon to a place where a Grey Warden can bring it down and kill it."

"Must it be a Grey Warden? Surely anyone can kill the archdemon-"

"The Tevinter Imperium had scores of battlemages and demons at its command but it took decades to stop Dumat. Only after the Grey Wardens were founded did the archdemon die." Mara's tone somehow managed to be flatter than before. "It's for this sacrifice the Maker weeps for them, for the Warden who takes the deathblow of the archdemon dies in the doing so. Arrek First-Warden. Jhimmy the Red. Mhairi Pentaghast. Garahel. All Wardens who slew the archdemon. All Wardens who died."

"You are certain this is a Blight?" Loghain asked softly. He'd been so certain that it was an Orlesian plot. Of course, if Mara was involved in her parents' treason- His thought was cut off as he recalled a warning of Maric's, given to him by the Witch Flemeth. "Maker's breath, Maric saw this coming…"

"Oh, was my father the new Prophet of the Maker?" Cailan asked sarcastically. The King's abandonment of the boy had left the fair-haired young man deeply insecure and keen to prove himself equal or superior to his father's legend.

"No. You know the story of how we fled into the Korcari Wilds after traitors slew Moira? We were rescued by Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds." Loghain resisted the all-too-common urge to throttle Cailan. "She warned Maric that a Blight was coming but that he wouldn't live to see it."

Duncan grunted. "She's sent us warnings through the Chasind refugees as well… and reminders of treaties we can use. The Dalish, the dwarves and the Magi, if you're wondering."

Loghain rounded the table to stand beside Cailan, looking Duncan and Mara in the face. The girl had been staring fixedly at the King until she realised the Teyrn of Gwaren could see her; then she looked away. Oddly enough, there was nothing of scheming or lust in that cold blue gaze, only… recognition.

"Our current forces are sufficient," Cailan responded. "According to the Teyrn here."

"I am not averse to having allies, I am averse to inviting the Orlesians in thirty years after we kicked them out!" Loghain growled for the thousandth time.

"The Free Marches could be persuaded to join us if we make it worth their while," Mara pointed out. "They are no friends to the Orlesians."

"Our quarrels with the Orlesians are a thing of the past!" Cailan insisted. Loghain rolled his eyes and noted that Lady Cousland did the same. It… made him wonder about certain things.

"Speaking of Orlesians, I should warn you we've had a Seeker join the Wardens at the command of the Chantry," Duncan interjected before a full-blown argument could ensue. "Apparently she is to facilitate communication between the Grey and the Chantry."

Loghain noted the slightly ironic tone in the man's rich baritone. "You think she's a spy for Orlais?"

"Not for Orlais, but for the Chantry." Duncan sighed, knuckling his eyes. Loghain didn't trust the man… but Maric had.

_Damn you for dying and leaving me to handle this mess on my own,_ he thought towards his long-lost friend. How could Maric do this to him?

"When will Fergus be back?" Mara asked. "I need to surrender the family's sword and shield to him."

"He's scouting in the Wilds," Cailan told her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But when he's back, Lady Cousland, there are several things we need to discuss."

Duncan tensed suddenly as the implications of Cailan's words became clear to Loghain. Mara Cousland was young, unmarried and belonged to the second noblest family in Ferelden. _Anora, my darling daughter-_

"The only things to discuss are confirming Fergus as Teyrn, a strategy to bring the archdemon to surface, and dealing with Rendon Howe," Mara responded coldly.

Cailan stared at her, offended. "I-What?"

"One queen, five mistresses and dozens of women, yet not one of them has fallen pregnant," the Cousland girl said with her trademark brutal honesty. "More to the personal point, you're vainglorious, reckless and heedless of the advice from your elders. You think of yourself first, though I think you mean well as King. And quite frankly, you're a blithering idiot intellectually. So I won't entertain a marriage of alliance between us, one which would incidentally piss off the _Commander of the Royal Army_ standing right beside you."

Even Duncan lost his composure, jaw dropping and eyes widening, as Mara flatly laid out every one of Cailan's faults to his face. The King was stunned into speechlessness and even Loghain was lost for words, though he'd said many of the same things over the past five years. Well, everything but calling Cailan a blithering idiot. That one he'd kept to himself.

Finally Cailan found his tongue. "You forget to whom you speak, _Lady Cousland,_" he reminded her icily.

"I speak to the King, who has surrounded himself by flatterers and ignored the few wise men amongst his nobles, my father being one," she countered coldly. "We are on the first edge of a Blight. The ground will rot beneath our feet, every breath will become poison, the wild things will become monsters with a taste for flesh. The chronicles are not specific on why, but I know that the Wardens will make every effort to execute tainted women in particular. This isn't about glory, King Cailan, but survival. Hang me. Kill me. Chain me. My family is dead and Fergus is innocent of my words. But I would ill-serve Ferelden if I _didn't_ lay out what is in store for our kingdom in the coming years."

Duncan sighed gustily. "I fear that the Lady Cousland has summed up the history of the Blights, your Majesty, though perhaps a little less diplomatically than I would have liked. We have lost the time to prepare for this because no one wanted to believe a Blight was coming."

Had the situation been less dire, Loghain would have laughed at both Duncan's subtle 'I told you so' and the expression on Cailan's face. The King looked like his best friend had kicked him clean in the balls.

"Very well, then, oh great sage, what would you have us do?" Cailan asked sarcastically of Mara. "Since you seem to have the answer to everything."

"Teyrn Loghain is the Commander of the Army, not I," Mara responded flatly, not rising to the King's bait. Was she truly emotionless as rumour claimed? "But I think that having the entire army here is a bad idea. We're bait in a trap."

Loghain nodded in agreement. Finally, someone with a bit of sense around here. "We are facing a guerrilla war then?"

"Yes," Duncan confirmed. "We must make a war of attrition upon the darkspawn until the archdemon rises. And when that will happen, only the Maker and His djinn know."

_What I wouldn't give to have Maric here,_ Loghain thought wearily. He wanted to disbelieve Mara and Duncan, wanted to think of it as an Orlesian plot… But Maric had foretold the Blight. "I don't suppose you'll tell me how you know all of this? The Cousland girl I get – she's obviously well-read. But you were an Orlesian street rat, Warden-Commander."

"The process which makes a Grey Warden allows us to detect the darkspawn," Duncan said carefully. "And, during a Blight, hear the archdemon."

_They become part of the horde,_ Loghain realised suddenly. All the hints – their great hunger, the patrols led by Wardens never being ambushed by darkspawn, even this 'Joining' spoken of – indicated that. A precise puzzle scattered across history, guarded by men who had every reason to be wary of Chantry spies who would not understand the sacrifices that needed to be made. But Loghain understood sacrifice. He'd eaten, drank and bathed in it for thirty years.

"I cannot effectively lead the army without the proper information. And forgive me, Duncan – I… trust your word because Maric did. But I don't trust the Orlesian Grey Wardens. Not when their Commander is the Empress' third cousin."

"The plan was to stick Thierry up an Ogre's arse and have my old Fereldanais friend Riordan of Jader take over," Duncan responded dryly. "Thierry wouldn't know the difference as he's so used to kissing Celene's backside he's accustomed to the taste of shit."

Mara, of all people, was shocked into a giggle at Duncan's crudity. Even Loghain barked briefly at the Warden-Commander. Cailan was silent, either listening, stewing or both.

"Maybe so. But I need to have the information straight from the source. Make me a Grey Warden."

Dead silence in the tent; even Duncan looked perturbed. "The Joining is… dangerous," he finally said. "As an older man, you face a greater chance of… not surviving."

Loghain grunted. "That may be so. But it is a chance I feel I must take. The key to winning a war is good information."

Duncan glanced at Cailan. "Do I have permission to Conscript him then, Your Majesty? Because honestly, Loghain as a Warden would make many things easier."

For a moment Loghain thought the boy would petulantly refuse. Cailan had lost all his illusions today and it was an even bet whether he'd either grow up or become worse. But then the King shook his head. "No, take him if he wants it."

"I know Wardens sacrifice their titles, but I think it wise that Loghain remains Commander of the Army," Mara suggested softly.

"That is allowable," Duncan confirmed. He glanced at Loghain, who was feeling… wounded… at the casual way Cailan had tossed him to the Grey Wardens, even if it was his own decision. Couldn't the boy have sounded a bit more regretful about it, reluctant even?

_Given you've spent the past five years berating him for not being Maric, maybe you should be glad you're not on a silver platter,_ his conscience, always in Maric's voice, reminded him mercilessly.

Loghain simply nodded. How could he tell the girl in front of him that her family was dead because he'd given an agent too much leeway? She'd backed him up at this meeting and even treated him with something resembling respect. Whatever quirks the girl had, she certainly held her duty to Ferelden dear.

_One way or the other, I'll know if Duncan is lying soon enough,_ he thought grimly. But Maric had reiterated his warning about the Blight just before he got onto the ship that would lead him to his death.

He had to survive this… Joining. Only he could protect Ferelden properly.

…

"Alistair? You have a new Warden-Recruit. And thank the Maker he's not my problem."

The Junior Warden – now Warden-Ensign – turned to face Mara with a crooked grin, noting her voice had warmed a little. "Please don't tell me it's the King. Because that would be… awkward."

The pursing of her lips indicated that she knew exactly why it would be so and he wondered if Duncan had told her or whether she'd figured it out herself. Maker knows she was smart enough to. "Worse. I told the King and Teyrn Loghain exactly what a Blight historically entailed."

"Don't forget told the King he was a blithering idiot," Brytta interjected as she strolled up to the fire, grinning broadly. "Just how noble _are_ you, salroka? Anyone less than House Harrowmount try that crap in Orzammar, they'd be up on the surface quicker than House Tethras after a fixed Proving."

"Mara's house is the oldest noble family in Ferelden, shares second-highest rank with the Mac Tirs – Teyrn Loghain's family – and is the third-most powerful," Alistair explained softly, managing not to gawk at the Cousland girl. Where the hell had _that_ come from? "If anything happened to the King, they'd have a fair shot at becoming the next rulers."

"Not without a fight from Queen Anora," Mara said grimly. "I think – given that King Cailan is most likely sterile – that Fergus will… will need…" She took a deep shuddering breath and squeezed her eyes shut before continuing. "Will need to marry her. Because if he does not, then she becomes a prize, and we already know one man vicious and ambitious enough to do what he must to claim the Mabari Throne."

"Anora fights dirty," Alistair observed, knowing from bitter experience.

"Being a woman of common birth who has been forced to take command because of Cailan's… ways?" Mara asked softly. "I am not surprised."

"And she has Loghain too-"

"That is what I came to tell you, Alistair. Loghain has volunteered for the Grey Wardens because of what I and Duncan said," Mara interrupted quietly. "Apparently the Witch Flemeth told y- King Maric that there would be a Blight when he died and he told Loghain."

_She knows._ Alistair sighed inwardly. Great, another reason for Anora to hate him, especially if her father died during the Joining. "Cailan must be relieved," he murmured.

"I don't know." Mara shrugged. "He tried to hint at a marriage of alliance with me. I… ah…"

"Told him he was a fuckwit an' turned him down," Daveth explained with a smirk, popping up out of nowhere. "Milady Cousland, your little tirade's runnin' all over the camp. Seems them tent walls don't keep sound in as well as they should."

_"Shit,"_ Mara breathed, the first time Alistair had ever heard her curse. "I… wasn't as tactful as I should have been."

"From what I've heard, somebody had ta say it," Daveth said cheerfully. "So, Milord Grumpy-Britches is joinin' the Wardens, eh? Looks like we got ourselves a new latrine digger."

"He'll be the Commander of the Army still, answering directly to me," Duncan growled. The Warden-Commander gestured curtly to Alistair and Mara, then his tent. "You two with me."

_I haven't done anything wrong, have I?_ Alistair thought despairingly as he followed his mentor.

Once inside, Duncan poured himself a cup of wine before continuing to speak. "Alistair, I'm moving up the Joining. I need you to be in the Wilds within six hours. There are treaties I need you to reclaim from an old outpost we lost when Sophia Dryden rebelled against Arland and got us kicked out. Daveth will know his way around here. Try to keep Loghain alive, if possible. When the Joining is complete, you are to take the treaties and Lady Cousland north. We will be sending half the army north in case something goes wrong, but you're known to Arl Eamon and Mara knows who else to speak to."

"Duncan, I-"

"Your primary mission is to get those treaties filled. We will need every ally we can get. Your secondary mission is to recruit more Wardens. I'll be teaching you the formula for the Joining." Duncan's voice was fast and terse as he rattled off orders. "If you can, reclaim Soldier's Peak. The Wardens will need a better base than our compound in Denerim."

"Duncan-"

"Lady Mara, your Conscription is in abeyance until we know whether your brother lives or dies," Duncan continued grimly. "As Alistair explained so succinctly, your family is one of the contenders for the throne. I need you to end this incipient civil war as soon as possible."

"Rendon Howe will beat me to the Landsmeet," Mara said wearily. "And I am not the best of speakers."

"No, you're not." For a moment Duncan looked wry. "But you are honest and know how to choose words to make an impact. You got through to Cailan where no one else could. I _think_ you can trust Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan. I must prepare for the fact that something may happen to your brother and Cailan at Ostagar."

"Duncan," Alistair began, his voice cracking. Then he tried to speak again. "Duncan, I can't do all of this-"

"You can and you must," Duncan interrupted softly.

"Why, because I'm Maric's son?" He might as well admit it openly to Mara.

"No, because you're _Fiona's_ son." Duncan smiled, the expression sad and rueful. "If I survive Ostagar, she'll kill me for telling you, lad. But your mother isn't some chambermaid from Redcliffe: she is, to be precise, an elven Warden-Mage from Orlais. Maric wanted to raise you but she didn't want you to know about either your royal blood or your elven heritage. Maric had suffered as king, she felt, and she'd certainly endured much because of her blood. She wanted you to be happy and free."

"Maker's breath…" Without asking, Alistair helped himself to some of Duncan's wine. "Is that why you recruited me?"

"In part, lad. But I saw your potential being smothered by the Chantry and felt I had to rescue you," Duncan answered with a fond smile. "You've come into your own since Highever, Alistair. I believe you can do this."

Mara sighed, studying her hands. "If this gets out, the Landsmeet will have a fit," she finally said. "There will be Theirin loyalists and those who dislike the Mac Tirs who will push Alistair's claim if Cailan dies."

Duncan grunted sourly. "I know, Mara. And I'm not impressed about the idea. Wardens don't claim titles without extreme necessity."

"I don't want the throne. I am perfectly happy being a Warden," Alistair stated. "Maker's breath, Duncan, I should stay here-"

"No." Duncan shook his head grimly. "Cailan has requested that I try to keep you out of the battle if I can. I also made a promise to both your parents I would do what I could to protect you."

"How bad is it?" Mara asked softly.

"Bleaker than I like, Mara." Duncan regarded her with a sad smile. "I fear all we at Ostagar will do is buy the rest of Ferelden time to prepare."

Alistair looked at the noblewoman, watching her shoulders brace as if accepting a heavy burden. Here he was, whining about his orders, when Lady Cousland had been through so much worse.

"Fine, Duncan. I'll do this. I'll roust up everyone and start now."

"Not yet. Cailan was… insistent on speaking to you." Duncan shook his head sadly. "It seems that Lady Cousland put some thoughts into his head. That is why she was allowed to walk away after saying some… well… what could be deemed treasonous things."

Mara sighed. "I will see if there's any news of Fergus." She looked up at Alistair, eyes wide and frightened. "Please be safe, Alistair."

Then she was gone and he instinctively reached for her. Maker's breath, travelling alone with a woman he feared he was falling in love with and would probably be a bad idea to get involved with, mostly for her sake-

Duncan sighed. "You'd better go see Cailan. I think he's oddly eager to meet you."

Alistair wasn't sure how to feel about that. But a command was a command. "Yes, ser," he said flatly.

He didn't want this. But from the sounds of it, he was the only one who could do it. Maker help him because no one else could.

…

"_You're vainglorious, reckless and heedless of the advice from your elders. You think of yourself first, though I think you mean well as King. And quite frankly, you're a blithering idiot intellectually."_

Cailan wanted to pour himself a drink but figured that meeting his bastard brother while soused was likely a very bad idea, even for him. If Mara Cousland's tirade had been delivered in Loghain's bitter growl or Anora's acidic tones, he would have just ignored it as he always did. But seeing a young woman so brutally orphaned trying to remain stoic and terse while she reminded him of his duty to Ferelden showed just how deeply he'd failed the Couslands. Bryce could have been King – quite frankly, on the wake of the true import of the darkspawn's appearance, _should have_ been King – but had stood aside because he believed in Cailan's right to the throne. And while the King had been playing hero down south, the man had been brutally slaughtered by a treacherous vassal.

He'd heard a few jokes about Mara's apparent frigidity and lack of social graces – had even made them himself after meeting the girl when she was thirteen – but on seeing her stand by Duncan, tonelessly delivering the knowledge she'd gleaned in dusty tomes while other noblewomen played politics or dithered at parties, he realised that she saw politics as irrelevant to doing her duty as a Cousland of Highever. _Then_ he'd discovered she'd gotten betrothed to Dairren Loren on the day Highever fell…

His man Elric, one of the few truly loyal to _him_, had tracked Alistair without the templar's knowledge for the past year. Cailan had been trying to avoid the truth about his likely sterility, letting Anora bear the brunt of the blame just like he had everything else, but had given some dim thought to perhaps conscripting his brother into… well… stud duty in return for escaping the Chantry. But then Duncan had swooped in, giving Alistair the dream Cailan had always yearned for, and the bastard had grown in strength, confidence and skill. Just today, the way he readily commanded two evil-looking thugs, an apostate and a _Seeker_ reminded Cailan too much of Maric's ability to bring diverse people together into one goal. A talent the King sorely lacked.

"Elric?" he asked softly into the dim gloom of the tent's bedchamber.

"Here. Maker damn, but it was hard getting close to Duncan's tent. Those Wardens keep their secrets well," his manservant answered, emerging from the shadows. "That Warden's preparing for-"

"My inevitable death through my own stupidity," Cailan interrupted, laughing humourlessly. "Andraste knows I've put the thought into him."

"Duncan's a shrewd bastard, I'll give him that," Elric agreed. "But Wardens don't claim titles unless it's necessary. Like Loghain remaining Royal Commander."

"I know. I also know that if I die, Eamon will push Alistair's claim forward whether he likes it or not," Cailan observed with a sigh. His uncle was… well-meaning. And Cailan believed that they could have a relationship of equals with Orlais. But he was also wise enough to know that if Celene got a hint of a claim to the Fereldan throne, she'd push it for all she was worth.

"I managed to chat up one of the Warden-Recruits, the dwarf woman," Elric continued thoughtfully. "Seems like Alistair's got a crush on the Cousland girl and she might fancy him in return."

Cailan's mouth quirked to the side. "Lady Cousland doesn't strike me as the sentimental kind," he noted dryly.

"I get the impression he literally killed his way through Castle Cousland to save her."

Great, his brother was a hero straight from the romances as well as a Grey Warden. "I can see why she's fond of him. I take it her betrothal to Dairren Loren was not for affection?"

"From what Brytta said, it was mostly to shut her parents up and because she could talk to him about some dragon book."

"That's more I and Anora have."

"Well, Anora's going to have a shit fit. Duncan's going to have Alistair do something called the Joining, then leave with Lady Cousland with some treaty in hand because he doesn't think we'll have much luck here."

"I know. I asked him to keep Alistair out of the fighting if possible." Cailan sighed, raking a hand through fair hair. "I'll give Alistair Father's sword. He'll make more use of it than I will."

"Just not the Queen's day, is it? Father's joining the Wardens-"

"I know Howe, the wretched little prick, wouldn't do something so horrific unless he thought he was in the clear," Cailan interrupted vehemently. "And there's only one man paranoid enough to believe some trumped-up bullshit about conspiring with Orlais. I'd hang the old bastard up with Howe but I think he realises just how much he fucked up when Mara Cousland defended him in our conversation."

"…I can make sure he doesn't come back from the Wilds," offered a light tenor with deadly softness.

Cailan felt his lips stretch in a mirthless smile as he turned to face Alistair. "Hello, brother," he said, voice catching oddly. How different would his life have been if they'd grown up together?

"Neat trick winkling the information out of Brytta. The woman doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut." Alistair folded his arms, golden eyes hard in the dim light. "I don't want the throne, your Majesty. I'm happy being a Warden."

"Call me Cailan. But please, no insults," the King answered wearily. Yes, Alistair was bitter and resentful with a lot of justification. "Lady Cousland gave me the rough side of her tongue today."

The templar said nothing, simply watching him with those elven eyes. The mage-killers of the Chantry were good at that silent staring thing. "You know, you should become King. Just to see Loghain's head explode."

"According to Mara, the best combination to take the throne would be her brother Fergus – who doesn't even know he's a widower – and Anora," Alistair finally replied. "Are you planning to kill yourself in battle, Cailan? Because that's the impression I'm getting."

"Would be the best thing I could do for Ferelden," Cailan admitted with a crooked grin.

Alistair's golden gaze hardened. "You selfish sack of-" He struggled with cursing, obviously hampered by his innate tendency to yield to authority and the education of the Chantry, before glaring at Cailan. "Get yourself killed and leave the rest of us to clean up your mess. That would be like you, Cailan."

"What would you know what's like me?" Cailan retorted bitterly. He'd been forced to bite his tongue around Mara because he knew she was right – and brittle from Highever.

"I was _ten_ when I was told by Arl Eamon I could never marry, never have children and would be subjected to a lifetime of false piety and lyrium addiction because of what man tumbled my mother," Alistair replied grimly. "Before that, I grew up sleeping with the dogs. Arl Eamon was good to me as best he could be with that Orlesian harpy he calls wife. But I will still never marry, never have children and will die an early death because of the taint."

_All because of you._ The templar didn't need to say the words; they hung in the air like smoke.

"I did some figuring out of your age, Alistair. Do you know you were conceived during the Deep Roads trip our father took without even saying farewell to me? He left. A fucking. Note." Cailan stalked over to his sideboard and got himself wine, also pouring some for Alistair. He wasn't angry with the templar, not when they had similar sorrows.

"Maker's breath… Cailan, I'm so _sorry,_" his brother breathed, but was waved silent by Cailan.

"You weren't to know. Maric the Saviour was never… there. He loved me, would give me things. But he was never _there_. And then I became King, let Anora run the show because she's so much better at it – and lets me know constantly, and endured Loghain trying to mould me into a legend just as he did our father."

"Maker's breath," Alistair repeated, voice horrified.

"And now I must live with the fact that one of the few vassals who would have supported _me_, on my own, was failed because I was too blind to see Howe manipulating Loghain's paranoia," Cailan admitted in a whisper. "So frankly, dying is the best thing I could do for Ferelden."

"Mara would stand with you, as would her brother if he's alive," Alistair pointed out. "She's not the most… socially adept of ladies, but she's got an amazing breadth of knowledge she can recall at the drop of a hat, and from what I gather Fergus is a charismatic warleader with a decent amount of tactical skill."

"Loghain the Second, eh?" Cailan laughed humourlessly.

"Loghain has many things. Charisma is not one of them." Alistair looked at him pointedly. "I meant what I said. I'm in charge of his Joining."

Cailan shook his head. "No, I'll let him stew in his misery. Besides, he's a bastard, but he _is_ the best commander in Ferelden. We'll need him in Ostagar."

"Go north to Redcliffe with the army. Arl Eamon will support you."

"Only because his power and prestige will depend on it." Cailan smiled crookedly at the stunned templar. "Uncle Teagan is a good man but Uncle Eamon is a politician first and foremost. Remember that, little brother."

"Make things right with Anora," Alistair suggested softly. "She's a ruthless, cold-hearted – err, noblewoman, but she can't be _all_ bad."

"The Bannorn love her more than me, it's true," Cailan admitted with a sigh. "I'm a lousy husband."

"Yep." Alistair certainly didn't believe in flattery.

"We just need to survive Ostagar." Cailan looked blindly in the direction of the Wilds. "I will… try to be careful. But if _I_ fall and Fergus falls and Anora can't stand on her own – take the throne. I know Wardens don't do that normally, but if it's a choice between you or someone like Howe-"

"…Got it," the templar finally said reluctantly.

Cailan crossed over to his chest and rummaged inside for certain important papers. "I took the liberty of preparing certain documents. One's a travel pass entitling you to use the facilities available to the royal couriers and Hounds of the King; another recognises you and your children as members of House Theirin; and the last is a writ for Rendon Howe's execution."

"I likely won't have children, Cailan. It's the price of being a Warden."

"I believe in covering all eventualities, little brother." It felt good to say that.

"…Thanks." The anger and bitterness had gone from Alistair's eyes, leaving only sorrow and regret. "Cailan, don't throw your life away. You're not as bad a King as you think."

Cailan couldn't agree with him but it was nice to know someone thought that way. "You'd better go and hurry Loghain along to the Joining," he said instead. "I bet Duncan's looking forward to being able to boss him around."

Alistair's grin was sharp. "My two thieves are already planning to make him dig latrines."

"Could I watch that? I'll even give them lifetime pardons for any crime short of murder."

"Oh no. I'm not letting those two get ideas." Alistair nodded awkwardly. "I'm… glad we could talk, Cailan."

The King smiled at his brother, who had no idea of how much a better man he was and ruler would make. "As am I, Alistair. As am I."

Then the Warden left and it seemed that a tremendous burden followed him, lifted from Cailan's shoulders.


	6. The Ways of the Wilds

Note: Sorry for the length of last chapter, it was to set up the political situation in Ferelden and establish a couple plotlines. Maric's blade is canonically (in the novels) a greatsword, so that's what Alistair's got now. And yes, in this head-canon Jory's a dick. References to _The Stolen Throne_ and _The Silent Grove._ Some minor head-canon for Flemeth and her deals.

…

**The Ways of the Wilds**

"So, two thieves, an apostate an' a knight follow a Chantry boy into the Wilds…"

"And the smartarse thief gets fed to the darkspawn," Alistair said through gritted teeth. "Hasn't the sheer size of the danger we are facing sunk in yet, Daveth?"

"Yes, yes, end of the world an' whatnot. But figure if'n I'm goin' ta die, I'll do it with a joke on my lips an' my-"

"Darkspawn!" Alistair drew his sword as an ugly little fucker popped out of nowhere to try and stab him in his broad back.

There were four of the bastards, two of which Alistair got before anyone could react. Brytta got the third by clobbering it with a mace and then flung a knife underhanded to catch the fleeing fourth in the back. She'd taken to the exotic variety of weapons available to the Wardens like a duck to water.

"Brytta, collect a vial. Daveth, Jory, Bethany, I want you three to be more alert." Alistair looked over his shoulder, wiping off the fancy-schmancy two-handed sword he'd gotten, at the stunned trio. "You have to catch and kill your own darkspawn for the Joining."

"Next time, I won't react so quickly," Brytta promised smugly.

"Ser Jory," the knight corrected, looking ill at the sight of the twisted creatures they were fighting.

"To be technical, you're Warden-Recruit Jory," Alistair pointed out, looking pretty unimpressed. "And I rank you."

"Let me put it this way, Ser Knight," Daveth observed mockingly. "He's the one that saved us from gettin' shivved by a genlock, so he's in charge."

"And I remember when you were the servant's bastard boy who slept with the hounds," Jory retorted to Alistair. "You wouldn't be where you are if Arl Eamon hadn't provided for your future by sending you to the Chantry. Remember _that_."

Alistair's fists clenched, the leather of his gauntlets creaking, and he turned around to face them fully. Poor Bethany, who wasn't really up to this shit, was silent in the background; Daveth noted that Brytta was getting into position to shiv Jory if he wasn't going to back down. Honestly, having put up with the prick for the past two months, he'd be happy to hand the dwarf the knife. Glory this and glory that; killing darkspawn was a shit of a job but far better than hanging.

"Given that I recall certain… events… from the stable myself, Jory, dare I ask how much does your wife resemble a palfrey?"

It was Daveth who got it first and he began to grin as Jory spluttered; Bethany put her hand to her mouth, giving a nervous twitter, as Brytta looked confused. "What's a palfrey?" she asked.

"It's a noble's ridin' horse. Got a real smooth gait to it," Daveth explained to the dwarf. "Alistair's sayin' Ser Jory mounts horses in socially unacceptable manners."

Brytta still didn't get it, so he finally spoke in a language she'd understand. "He fucks horses."

"I was drunk and relieving myself in the stable!" Jory protested.

"Standing on a mounting block?"

The knight looked ready to draw his greatsword but Alistair's gaze blazed gold with banked fury. Daveth got the feeling he was looking for a reason to lose his shit. He resolved then and there to behave for the rest of the trip, especially as they went deeper into Wilder territory.

"I saw Chasind clan-sign nearby, ser," the thief interjected cautiously. "Otter. Might be people or a cache nearby."

"Duncan said you're from this area," the Warden-Ensign murmured, sheathing his new sword. "Do you have any idea where old Warden outposts would be?"

"Griffin's Rock? Two ways to get to it. Might be an idea to scout out both paths 'cause of darkspawn." Daveth raked a hand through his short black hair. "Sorry for sassin' ya, ser."

"Just stay focused, Daveth. We do no one any good if we're dead." Alistair gestured to the thief. "Take point."

"I lead just as well from the back," Daveth protested, but obeyed.

They made their way through the Wilds, coming across clan signs that Daveth noted as coming from Otter, Hawk (Bethany had the look of them, but he figured she had enough on her plate to discuss possible ancestry), Rabbit and Cat. He nearly shit himself when he saw a Salmon clan-sign, because they were from deep south by the sea. "Them darkspawn are smart," he breathed. "Korcari Wilds are the perfect place ta breed an' prepare without the north noticin'."

"Indeed," Alistair agreed grimly, then pulled out his sword again.

Daveth, then Jory, then Bethany got their vials by the time they reached Otter Camp. But Griffin's Rock was deeper and Daveth knew that the Otter clan cache was nearby. Maker knew it was as close to an inheritance from his ma that he'd get.

They fought their way past the bridge and to the cache. Daveth tried not to think about the mutilated corpses being people he was related to. But even Brytta was looking sick and Jory looked like he wanted to run.

"Looting from the dead?" the knight asked snidely, no doubt to try and hide his fear, as Daveth dug up the cache.

"My ma was from this clan," the thief responded tersely. "So's I got the right to it."

His hands clenched around the ornate stave of a yew bow as rotted suede fell from it. "The Wilds Bow," he breathed. Only the greatest of the clan hunters were allowed to use it, and the weapon was passed down through a lineage of skill and pride instead of ancestry. "Fuck me, these are Otter's greatest clan treasures."

The Chief's Flatblade, shaman's robes, a helmet and mace… "What happened?" he asked of the air. "What happened to my ma's clan?"

Daveth, the man who hadn't cried since he outran his hamlet after dumping his pa in the bog, began to weep. "They's… buried this. They's knew they's dyin' an' buried it so someone else could find it."

Alistair knelt by his side and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "We can avenge them," he promised softly. "But I need you to focus."

Daveth wiped his eyes and got up, nodding to the Warden. "Yeah, yeah. Just… shit. Sometimes wonder what woulda happened if I'd gone south ta ma's people instead'a north ta Denerim."

"You'd be dead," Brytta observed with rough sympathy. The Duster might have been his type of girl but for her obvious crush on their glorious leader Duncan.

"Yeah, I know…" Daveth scrubbed at his eyes. "Alistair, take the Flatblade. I know you got that fancy sword, but the Flatblade's a good backup weapon. Bethy, them robes are yers. I know ya got your own, but backup robes is good to have too, I guess. Bow's mine, 'cause Bryt, you're a shit archer. You can have the mace though."

"Wouldn't I be better to get the greatsword?" Jory asked.

"Ya ain't Chief here, Alistair is. Ya can keep the helmet though; might hide ya ugly mug."

Jory was not amused. "No one ever told me the Wardens were a collection of thieves, apostates and thugs! I thought they were heroes!"

"Just think, Ser Stallion, ya're in good company," Daveth told him sarcastically. He was never going to live the horse thing down if the thief could help it, mostly because he insulted poor Beth, who'd done nothing to him.

Alistair held up his hand for silence. "There's an unknown mage watching us," he breathed.

"Either shaman or one of the Witches," Daveth muttered in return. "There are two: Flemeth an' her daughter of the moment."

"Let's get these treaties," the templar said aloud. "We'll need to hurry back to camp or we won't be able to swing a dead cat without hitting a darkspawn."

It was a short walk to Griffin's Rock, the ancient outpost where the Wardens had once lived. The darkspawn were done for in short order, Bethany's face going pale from more than just dealing with the evil creatures. "Hang on," Alistair murmured to the apostate. "We'll get you back to the Joining in time."

"I'll try," she whispered.

It didn't take a genius to guess that the broken chest in the middle of the outpost meant the treaties were gone. Alistair didn't even bother stopping to swear or anything – was the man a fucking saint or something – but instead said aloud, "I know you're there. Please come out."

A woman, leaning on her twisted black staff, came out from the back of the outpost. "Templar," she greeted.

"Warden," he corrected with surprising gentleness.

"My mother had me track you. She has the treaties." The Witch – who else could it be, a woman clad in rags with skin pale as pearl when the Chasind were dark – regarded them all with alien yellow eyes. She was beautiful but Daveth was reminded of a wild bird, too frightened to approach, wanting to fly away but drawn by necessity. "'Twas… not how I wished to approach you, but the darkspawn forced me to use more of my magic than I expected."

"Your mother would be Flemeth?" Alistair asked, eyes narrowed.

"Who else?" The Witch turned from them, presenting hips that could give Bethany a run for her money. "Follow me then, if it pleases you."

Flemeth was closer, far closer than Daveth realised. Practically around the corner. Bethany was looking sicker by the moment and Jory looked ready to shit himself. Daveth, knowing of the legends of the Witches, was quietly scared shitless. But he put a brave face on it, mostly for Beth's sake, and because he wanted to look braver than Jory. Brytta, of course, had nothing to worry about as a dwarf.

"Mother, I bring before you-"

"I know who they are, girl. And we will have words about your carelessness later." Flemeth, who looked like an ancient crone instead of the beauty she was reputed to be, regarded Alistair and the Warden-Recruits with a smirk. "So, yet again a Theirin comes with hat in hand asking for another favour. Is it power you want, boy? That was Calenhad's wish. Or to survive? That was your father's."

Daveth had never met a man who could take as much shit as Alistair did and remain polite. The man was inhuman, he was. "I'm here for the Warden treaties, Lady Flemeth," he responded, strong jaw rippling with tension. "Because if they aren't fulfilled, Ferelden dies."

"Not for yourself, then." Flemeth's expression looked thoughtful as Jory eyed Alistair with the kind of 'oh shit' expression most people reserved for the executioner. "What price would you pay for them, Warden? How far would you travel, at my request, when the Blight is done?"

"How about you give us the treaties?" Brytta suggested flatly. "They do you no fucking good and might even weigh you down when common sense starts kicking in and you start running. Because I don't know who you are, lady, but the archdemon is at least ten times as bad as you."

Flemeth laughed at the dwarf. "The diamond! Raised from the Dust, longing for what she cannot have. I see the skin-walker, the apostate and you, but where are the lady and the assassin, hmm?"

"How nice for you. You know some creepy mumbo-jumbo that can tell you who and what I am." Brytta's voice was flat. "Now give us the fucking treaties or I'll smash your head in."

"Brytta, you are talking to an age-old apostate who has slain over two hundred templars since the Black Age," Alistair said tersely. "If she wants something from me to get the treaties, I'll gladly give it. We need to get back to Duncan before Bethany gets too sick for the Joining."

Flemeth's eerie yellow eyes gleamed. "You would too. Bah! Take the treaties, boy; you're so self-sacrificing it makes me sick."

Daveth caught the packet of yellowed parchment thrown in their general direction, recalling legends about the pure of heart being able to extract aid from Flemeth without a bargain. Looked like it was true. And the Chantry boy would be that fucking pure.

"However, I will be sending my daughter Morrigan with you," the Witch continued, looking smug. "You will not end this Blight without her help."

"I… Mother?" Morrigan yelped. "I am not ready-"

"You've been itching to leave the Wilds for years," Flemeth interrupted.

"Two mages in the Wardens are rare, but it has happened before," Alistair began, only to receive a vile look from the Witch.

"My daughter is not for the Wardens. She accompanies you for my own purposes."

_All we need, a bloody Witch followin' us,_ Daveth thought, even though Morrigan was feral in her beauty.

"I can't promise her safety outside of the Wilds," Alistair pointed out softly. "I'm not saying this as a templar, but as a Warden."

"Morrigan can conceal herself better than most," Flemeth assured him. "If you wish to succeed, you will need her aid."

"Very well," Alistair finally answered. "Is there anything else you require from us, Lady Flemeth?"

The Witch smiled enigmatically. "That is all for now, Warden-Prince. Morrigan, lead them from here."

"'Twill be my pleasure," the younger Witch answered, giving Daveth the impression neither liked the other.

"Farewell, Grey Wardens. I will see you soon." The mists closed around the cottage, concealing the ancient crone, and Daveth finally allowed himself a shudder.

"Let's go," Alistair commanded curtly. "We've a long night before us."

…

Morrigan had never seen so many people gathered together with one purpose. 'Twas a startling sight and one that sent an uncharacteristic bolt of fear through her. Alistair, the Warden-Prince whose coming Flemeth had foretold several years ago, led them unerringly through the camp towards a stoic, grim-faced man with skin darker than even the Chasind. He raised an eyebrow upon espying the Witch.

"A new recruit, Alistair?" he asked, voice gravel and velvet rolled into one.

"This is Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth. Apparently we need her to fight the Blight," Alistair observed with some sarcasm, though not directed at her. He had been… courteous on the walk back, generally leaving it to the chattering Brytta to carry the conversation. The dwarf's first advice to her had been along the lines of telling her mother to go to the nugs and making her own decisions. "But she isn't to take the Joining. Well, Flemeth doesn't want her to."

"Lady Morrigan," the man greeted with a bow of his head. "You are welcome here, but I cannot guarantee your safety with so many templars and Circle mages about. I, personally, don't care where my allies come from so long as they can fight darkspawn. But one of our allies is a Seeker from the Chantry and she may… take it poorly."

Morrigan wanted to sneer at the man but her instinct told her that he was being sincere. "I can hide myself," she assured him, understanding he had to be this 'Duncan' the other Wardens had mentioned.

"Or we could put her in Warden-Mage robes and none will know the difference," the direly ill Bethany suggested softly.

"Oh child," Duncan's face was grave as he sighed. "We shall hold the Joining sooner rather than later."

Bethany smiled weakly. "If I… don't survive… tell Leliana I love her?"

"Of course." Duncan turned to Alistair. "With me. You need to learn the recipe for the Joining."

"Yes ser," Alistair answered, nodding to his obvious commander before turning to the others. "You have an hour to prepare yourselves. I advise praying to whatever gods you believe in."

With that ominous suggestion, the Warden-Prince followed Duncan deeper into the ruins, leaving Morrigan alone with the Warden-Recruits. Of them all, she mistrusted Jory the most.

"I don't like this," Jory muttered. "Where is the glory?"

"You saw them fuckers out there," Daveth responded scornfully. "Wouldn't ya die ta fight them?"

"Of course! But I have a wife, a child! It doesn't seem fair! If I had known-"

"Nugshit on a stick, sword-caste! Those things will turn your wife and kid into monsters if you don't become a Warden and kick darkspawn ass," Brytta pointed out. "Grow some balls and do your Ancestors proud!"

"I saw a horse 'round here somewhere if you'd like a last tumb-" Daveth dodged Jory's clumsy blow, laughing at him mockingly. "Maybe ya'll die. Maybe we all die. But after seein' them fuckers, reckon it might be worth it."

"Bethany!" cried out a soft, accented voice. Morrigan turned to face a redhead in black and silver armour reach for the dark-haired mage, only to be pulled back by a slender girl in gilded blue leathers and a grim-faced older man in silverite armour.

"Do not touch her until the Joining is complete," advised the ash-blonde girl sadly. "It will be the only thing that saves her now."

"I am sorry I missed the journey into the Wilds, but Duncan felt it was best to lay some final battle-plans should my time be up with this Joining," growled the man as he released the redhead, whose eyes were distraught. Bethany reached for her but stayed back. Were they lovers? Morrigan had heard of such things, mostly in Orlais, but never expected to see it for herself.

"Teyrn Loghain," Jory said with relief. "Things have been… troubling… around here."

"Oh, the Redcliffe knight," Loghain grunted. 'Twould seem Jory was not held in the esteem he believed his due. "Who's the apostate?"

"Morrigan, a Witch of the Wilds. She _isn't_ to take the Joining," Jory answered – too loudly.

"A daughter of Flemeth?" the ash-blonde girl asked curiously. She seemed oddly… subdued. Not emotionless, just distant emotionally. Not like the walking black hole that Morrigan instinctively knew to be a Tranquil mage. "My family has a history with the Witches of the Wild."

"My Lady Cousland!" Jory said fervently. "Are you to be a Grey Warden too?"

"Not likely, though I'd be more use to them," the Cousland – descendant of the Guard-Captain Flemeth had spared for being the only one to speak out against Osen's execution – answered. "Ser Jory, yes? Winner of the tournament at Highever?"

"Yes, my lady-"

Lady Cousland's gaze was bleak. "Have you been told of the news from Highever?"

"News?" Jory now seemed even more uncertain.

"Maker's breath…" Daveth breathed behind Morrigan.

"Highever was attacked treacherously by Rendon Howe," the Lady (who had to be the lady her mother spoke of) said softly. "Castle Cousland was destroyed. I don't know what happened to your wife Helena."

"I must to horse!" Jory cried out. "I must-"

"You belong to the Wardens now," Lady Cousland interrupted sadly. "I'm sorry-"

"You're _sorry_?" Jory spat. "You probably ran at the first sign of trouble!"

"Actually, I knocked her out and Alistair carried her because she wouldn't leave her parents despite their orders," Brytta said flatly. "By the way, her dad's guts were hanging out and it was the last thing she saw of him. Call Mara what you will but don't call her a coward."

Morrigan put a hand to her mouth. If Flemeth were to die in such a way, she'd probably laugh. But judging by the ashen hue of Mara's face, her relationship with her parents had been… softer. Poor child. Her parents had done her no favours to prepare her for the cruelty of the world.

"My wife is pregnant!" Jory yelled. "I have to-"

"I am told that once you are Conscripted, your old life is over," Loghain told him gruffly, though not without compassion. "It is a hard truth to face, but as a soldier your mission comes first. You knew this when you took vows as a Knight of Redcliffe."

"Don't suppose ya coulda waited until after the Joinin' ta tell him?" Daveth asked Mara dryly.

"I dunno. If he shits himself to death now, we can save the Joining for someone more useful," Brytta pointed out pragmatically.

Morrigan decided she liked the dwarf then and there. In fact, the Wardens as a whole seemed wonderfully unsentimental and surprisingly welcoming. She looked towards Leliana – who had to be this Seeker Duncan spoke of – and noticed the woman speaking softly to Bethany but not touching her. They were praying together. Poor girl, to be so brainwashed!

Mara left the panicky Jory to Brytta and Daveth, approaching the Witch directly. Up close, she was disturbingly young with the biggest ice-blue eyes Morrigan had ever encountered, made more so by the swirling black tattoo around the right one. "When Duncan and Alistair returns, you, I and Leliana will need to go apart," she murmured. "Some things are not our business to know."

"I am… sorry… for your family," Morrigan said awkwardly. "Flemeth always spoke well of Salim Cousland."

Pain flickered across the girl's face. "Thank you. It is my brother Fergus and I now…" She looked in the direction of the Wilds. "Know you the Cousland banner, the Laurel Crown? And have you seen it in the past few days?"

"No, I have not. But the darkspawn are thick in the Wilds." Morrigan wouldn't offer comfort of any sort to the girl. "If they have no Wardens with them, they are… in far greater danger."

Mara nodded bleakly, not protesting as Morrigan expected. That brought her up a bit in the Witch's eyes. "It is… foolish… to think he will escape where others didn't. But if I don't, I think I will go mad," she admitted softly. "If I am the last of the Couslands-"

"You will be Teyrna of Highever," Alistair confirmed softly. Mara turned around to face the Warden, anguish twisting her face, and he returned her sorrowful gaze. "Mara, are our packs ready? Duncan wants us to be ready to leave once the Joining is done."

She nodded, forcing her features to coldness again, as Loghain looked at them. "What's this?"

Alistair met the man's grey eyes grimly. "Duncan can't let the treaties get bogged down at Ostagar. So he's decided that Mara and I are the best chance to get them filled _and_ do something about Howe."

The war-leader grunted. "Cailan's idea. Your Warden-Commander's too attached to his precious neutrality."

"That neutrality is necessary in a Blight," Alistair responded flatly. Morrigan realised there was some undercurrent of resentment, perhaps even animosity, between the two men. "Don't worry, Loghain, I'm not going to make a move for the throne… even if something happens to Cailan. Your daughter's precious crown's safe from me."

Loghain glowered at the Warden-Prince. "I see I shall be in for quite the _welcome_ in the Wardens," he observed sardonically.

"You get what you give," the Theirin replied tersely. "Everyone! It's time for the Joining!"

"Maker with you all," Mara said softly as the Warden-Recruits stood, Bethany needing to be helped up by Daveth. Jory was marched along by the simple expedient of a dirk touching the small of his back, courtesy of Brytta.

Morrigan _liked_ her.

Loghain swallowed thickly, looking to the Cousland girl. "Girl, I…" He coughed, shaking his head. "I was wrong about certain things. You're… likely Teyrna of Highever now. I think you're strong enough to handle it. Ferelden will need people like you in the coming days."

With those cryptic words, he was the first to stride to wherever the Joining was being held. Morrigan regretted being under the eye of two others who'd notice if she were to disappear. She was greatly interested in what would happen.

Instead, she looked at Mara, whose expression went from cold to an icy rage to… nothing. She'd shut down her emotional responses somehow. But her body kept on shaking regardless, though whether from fury or distress the Witch couldn't tell.

Alistair watched Loghain pass and the anger within those golden eyes burned hot to Mara's cold. "I'd figured it out and so had Cailan," he told her softly, fiercely. "I was… just trying to find a way to tell you."

"We'll talk later," Mara told him monotonously. "Maker forgive me, I don't know whether to pray he dies… or survives to regret his… stupidity."

"Neither do I," Alistair replied. "Neither do I."

Then he was going and Morrigan knew that after this hour, nothing would be the same again.


	7. Join Us

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Interludes will be every three chapters. Dum-dum-duuuuuummmm. It's Joining time. *cackles evilly* Who shall live and who shall die…? Wait, if you're reading this, you'll already know. Fiona is golden-eyed in my head-canon to account for Alibear's eyes. ;)

Trigger warnings for implied/discussed torture and violence.

…

**Join Us**

Duncan kept his face impassive as the Warden-Recruits filed into the old temple, knowing that a fair few of them faced death while all were desperately needed. Loghain was grim and stoic, unchanging; Alistair's terse explanation of his and Cailan's conversation, the revelation that the Teyrn of Gwaren had backed Howe at Highever, had led the Warden-Commander to keep the general away from the Wilds because… accidents… could happen. Alistair was growing up but his sense of 'justice' currently overshadowed his pragmatism. Loghain had enough conscience to accept responsibility for his sins.

Bethany, though pale with the black veins of the taint now visible in her sweet face, was resolute. Duncan murmured a silent prayer for the forgiveness of Malcolm Hawke but he had no choice. She was a powerful mage, one unfettered by the constraints of the Circle. He needed someone unafraid to unleash the full force of their destructive fury.

Jory must have gotten the news about Highever; he was panicky, wanting to be somewhere else. Not for the first time Duncan regretted Conscripting him, but he had proudly stepped forward to volunteer. Now he would discover the price for the 'glory' of the Wardens.

Daveth, so much like and unlike Duncan, had folded his arms and awaited his fate calmly. Alistair had told him about the thief's reaction to the likely fate of the Chasind clans and the cache he'd led them to. On the surface, the half-Chasind was cut of a similar cloth to Brytta; but in reality, he was steadier and more sensible than the Duster.

And Brytta herself… Duncan sighed inwardly. Bold, irreverent, stubborn… Her big mouth pissed people off even as her non-judgmental nature endeared the scrappy little Duster to them. If anything came close to cracking the self-imposed isolation he'd cultivated as he aged and was forced to face the Blight, it was her unrelenting yearning for him. Had he met her ten years ago, he would have gladly gotten involved with her. But now… now it was too late for them both.

"It is time for the Joining," he began as Alistair entered the temple, expression grim. That Maric was the dominant source of his features couldn't be denied, but Fiona's legacy lingered in his extraordinary golden-hazel eyes, the sharp definition of his cheekbones and the habit of his eyebrow lifting whenever he felt something strongly. He was a ridiculously handsome young man and Duncan knew he was playing with fire by sending him alone with Mara… but necessity drove hard. _If_ something happened between the two, he had to trust that the Cousland girl was wise enough to deal with the matter pragmatically. A Theirin-Cousland child would trigger nothing but grief in this incipient civil war.

"About time," Loghain observed with a sardonic twist of his thin lips. "One way or the other, I'll face judgment for all I've done."

"Wait, what?" Brytta sounded confused.

"Later," Duncan said wearily. Maker's breath, no wonder Jory looked ready to do something drastic.

"Could be dead later, Duncan," the Duster pointed out. Why the hell did Brytta have to ask the wrong question at the most inconvenient time?

"Let there be honesty, Warden-Commander," the general said wearily. "Rendon Howe presented evidence to me that the Couslands were conspiring with the Orlesians to undermine Cailan's rule. I told him to do what he had to in order to stop the plot, stressing discretion as the Couslands were beloved by the north. I didn't expect him to outright slaughter everyone in Castle Cousland and most of Highever. And so, partly as atonement, partly because I cannot lead the army effectively without knowing the plans of the darkspawn, I have submitted myself to the Grey Wardens."

"Nugshit on a stick, you fucking diamond-castes are pathetic!" Brytta spat in disgust. "And here rumour painted you as slightly less stupid than the rest. Congratulations – you've managed to fuck things up considerably."

"'Diamond-caste'?" Daveth asked softly.

"Noble." Brytta spat again, the gob landing at Loghain's feet.

"Loghain's more like a topside Paragon, Brytta," Duncan corrected flatly. "_If_ he survives the Joining, he is to be treated no worse than any other Warden. Is that clear?"

"Yeah, whatever, Duncan. I'm Carta but some of the shit that went down at Highever? That sickened me." Brytta regarded the general grimly. "And I once held a man's face down in lava at the orders of Beraht."

"Fuck me," Daveth observed, shaking his head. "Can we just shiv this prick, Duncan? Ain't got many standards, but Rendon Howe's an evil bastard, through an' through."

"No. For all of Loghain's… faults… he is the premier general in Ferelden," Duncan responded bitterly. "Wardens do what they must."

The Warden-Commander turned from the gathered recruits to pick up the Joining Cup, ripe with the stench of taint and lyrium. "We were formed during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. The armies of Tevinter had slain Dumat again and again yet still he rose. It wasn't until a group of desperate warriors, dedicated to fighting the darkspawn at all costs, imbibed the taint itself that a way was found to defeat the archdemon for good."

"We're… going to drink the blood of these… these… creatures?" Jory stammered.

"What are ya, fuckin' thick?" Daveth asked sarcastically. "Yeah, we obviously are."

Brytta sniffed curiously. "Taint with a lyrium chaser. Might even knock that dumbass Oghren off his feet."

"You ask me to accept the company of the man who allowed the slaughter of everyone in Highever, including very likely my pregnant wife, and then to drink the taint? No, there is no glory in this! You ask too much!" Jory drew his belt-knife, his greatsword having been set aside in camp, and automatically everyone else drew their own daggers. But for Duncan.

"I do not _ask_, Jory. Once you have accepted the Conscription, there is no turning back." Duncan regarded him with pity. "Drink the Joining Cup and possibly live. Or die for certain."

The Warden-Commander advanced inexorably towards the Redcliffe knight. "You were chosen because I thought you had a chance to survive this, Jory."

The knight seemed torn between fight and flight, brown eyes so wide the whites showed all around. "No!"

"Look at it this way," Brytta observed sardonically in the background. "Might be seeing your wife sooner rather than later."

Her words goaded Jory into violence; the burly knight turned in her direction with an inarticulate cry of rage, but she smoothly whipped out one of her throwing knives and flung it unerringly. The blade sank deep into Jory's right eye, dropping him instantly, and before Duncan could even react she crow-hopped forward and slit his throat with her offhand dagger to make certain.

"He disrespected his seniors, refused to take orders, insulted his fellow Wardens, threatened Morrigan's safety by blabbing she was a Witch who wasn't going to take the Joining, and finally tried to cut and run," the dwarf explained pitilessly. "I can tolerate Loghain because he's no better than the rest of us. But so far as I'm concerned, the Wardens are my Carta, and the Carta doesn't take shit from its members."

Duncan would have cheerfully throttled at her even as he accepted she'd beaten him to the punch with Jory. Instead he thrust the cup at her and growled, "Drink."

The dwarf sheathed her daggers, smoothed down her messy auburn curls, and accepted the cup with a wry smirk. "Here's to becoming Warrior Caste and kicking darkspawn ass," she said cheerfully, toasting everyone before taking a gulp.

Duncan managed to get the cup from Brytta before she collapsed. But there was no choking and at the moment he wasn't sure if he was relieved or pissed she'd survived.

Loghain took a shuddering breath and stepped forward. "I'll go next."

He too survived. The Maker was obviously for making Duncan's life difficult.

Bethany went third, collapsing into a coma so deep that Duncan knew that the taint would be strong in her, the poor child. But the Hawke resilience kicked in and so she pulled through, though it was a near thing.

Daveth was last and also survived. It seemed the Maker had decided to 'bless' these particular Wardens because He knew how needed they were.

Alistair dragged them into more comfortable positions and threw a blanket over Jory's face. "I'll go tell the ladies the Joining was a… success," he observed sardonically. "I'm not sure how Mara will react, but I know Leliana will be pleased Bethany will live."

"Good idea," Duncan agreed with a sigh. "And get some rest, lad. I want you on the road north by no later than noon tomorrow."

Alistair nodded curtly. "Will I see you before then, ser?"

"I'm not sure, Alistair…" Duncan sighed again, feeling older than he should, taint and all. "Lad, for what it's worth, I'm proud of you. You've become a fine man and a finer Warden."

The younger man gulped, tears glittering in his eyes, as he roughly embraced the Warden-Commander. "You're the closest thing I'll have to a father, Duncan. Thank you. For everything."

Duncan returned the embrace, allowing himself the luxury of tears for a moment. "I am not certain how long we'll hold in Ostagar, especially with half the army sent north, and I know I'm giving you and Mara one hell of a task. But I need you to rouse Arl Eamon and the other lords not here to prepare for when we do break and of all the nobles of Ferelden, Mara's the one with the biggest chance to persuade them to _listen_."

"Watch for Cailan," Alistair murmured. "I think he wants to die in battle."

"I'll do my best," Duncan promised softly. "Maker watch over you, my boy."

"And you too, Duncan. You too."

Duncan watched the Warden-Ensign walk away with a mixture of sorrow, affection and pride. If only Maric and Fiona knew what matter of man their son was.

…

"Ugh. That still tasted better than dwarven ale."

"You got no taste, Daveth," Brytta moaned as she woke up, seeing Duncan staring down at her concernedly. Never one to waste an opportunity, she grabbed him by his long hair and hauled herself up to kiss him.

The stunned expression on his face was worth the inevitable lecture about killing deadweight without orders. She didn't regret goading Jory into attacking so she could put him down. The Carta didn't accept the weak and neither did the Wardens. Hopefully, Duncan would be more pissed about the without orders thing than the actual killing thing.

"Get a room!" Daveth jeered. Great, the smartass survived. Good, she'd have someone who got shit.

"Hunh… So the Maker will make me earn my absolution," Loghain groaned as he rolled over.

"Leli?" mumbled Bethany.

Duncan managed to extricate himself from Brytta, eyes dark with emotion. "We are going to talk soon," he growled.

"So long as the talk involves sex too, I'm all ears," Brytta responded with a grin.

_"Brytta,"_ he growled dangerously. "I am your commanding officer."

"And Jarvia was Beraht's second. What's the issue?"

The Warden-Commander stared at her before turning around and stalking off somewhere deeper into the ruins. Moments later, the sound of cursing followed; she didn't _understand_ the languages he was using it, but she knew the tone of swearing.

"Don't worry, love. He'll get over himself," Daveth said reassuringly. "Don't suppose ya'd give me a kiss too?"

Brytta gave him the finger instead. It was appropriate. She liked Daveth – he was topsider Leske – but she wasn't going to let him get away with half the shit she'd let the swarthy dwarf.

"Since Alistair's going to be travelling around with those treaties, I'll catch him before he goes with a message for Rica," she said, standing up properly. "As I understand it, now I'm a Warden and she's preggers, we're Warrior Caste at least."

"So, you're a sword-caste now?" Daveth asked cheekily.

"Guess so. Obviously, I improve the breed." She looked forward to seeing the look on the Proving Master's face when she entered the fighting legitimately.

"Yeah, 'course you do." Daveth looked over to Loghain, who'd gotten his baby-killing ass up, and Bethany. It was creepy how much better she looked after drinking the taint. Talk about weird shit.

"Hey, go kiss your girlfriend!" Brytta advised with a grin. "We're alive!"

The apostate nodded, rising to her feet and wiping her mouth. "I am never going through that again," she declared.

"Oh, I dunno. If we run out of ale at a party…" Brytta smirked.

"Remind me to stay on your good side." Why did everyone say that about Brytta? It wasn't like she was randomly killing people.

The Duster shrugged. She was alive, she felt even better and stronger than before, and she had a Warden-Commander to seduce. Life was all good.

…

Bethany sighed happily, enjoying Leliana's head massage as they lazed by the fire. Wardens were given a day or so of rest after their Joining and she intended to enjoy the last bit of peace she'd have for a while.

"I am glad you survived," the Orlesian Seeker admitted, dexterous fingers easing the last of her taint-induced headache. Bethany resolutely decided to forget about the fever and numbness which had assaulted her in the Wilds. She was alive for now. It would be well.

"As am I," she agreed, chuckling. "So is Duncan. Mages are hard to get and the Circle refused him because he wanted someone called Muirne."

"Muirne. First Enchanter Irving's star pupil and appointed successor." Leliana paused and added, "She's also an Amell. The child of your mother's cousin, the one who was taken to the Circle."

"Oh. The poor girl." At least Bethany knew who she was. Poor Muirne would never know what a family was or be loved by anyone…

"I am sure we will meet her during the course of our journey," Leliana said reassuringly. "That is something we must discuss. Do you know if we will be travelling with Alistair and Mara?"

Bethany sighed. "I think Duncan wants me to stay here," she said softly. "I think he wants to avoid anything that looks like Orlesian support."

"That's ridiculous!" Leliana protested. "I am here on the Chantry's account!"

"Which Alistair distrusts and even Mara is wary of," Bethany pointed out.

The Seeker sighed. "I was briefed thoroughly on Alistair," she admitted. "And your father's file within the Seekers was… extensive. If the Grey Wardens hadn't gotten to him first, the Seekers might have approached him."

Bethany sat up in surprise. "What?"

Leliana nodded, moving to give the mage space to turn around and face her. "There are people in the Chantry who are looking to reform the Circle model," she admitted quietly. "We believe we can find a happy medium between the need to watch mages and the innate desire for freedom all people have. Your father – a powerful mage known for his code of ethics – would have been a perfect example that someone with good, strong ties won't feel as desperate as a trapped, helpless prisoner."

"Ah!" Bethany smiled happily. "I would have liked to study with mages other than Garrett without… well…"

"Becoming a Warden." Leliana reached out and ran her fingers through her hair. "I understand. I wish Duncan was easily persuaded. I'd be better help preparing the Chantry for what is coming than being down here – but I will not leave you."

"Perhaps a happy medium could be found?" Mara, who was nearly as light on her feet as the bard, suggested quietly. "You and Bethany come with us as far as Lothering, then you wait there."

The Lady Cousland had lost whatever innocence remained after Highever in the wake of Loghain's oblique confession. Poor girl; it was a good thing she had Alistair to keep her… here. Bethany would have gone mad without Leliana these past few years.

"I'm not sure Duncan would be impressed to lose his mage so soon," Bethany said doubtfully. "If Morrigan had undergone the Joining, perhaps…"

As speaking her name conjured her, Morrigan exited one of the small tents in the Wardens' camp, folding her arms and regarding Bethany curiously. "'Tis interesting how the Joining stabilises taint and humanity," she observed softly. "The Grey Wardens are remarkable specimens."

"I hope Loghain is remarkable enough to save Ferelden," Mara said bitterly. "For I cannot think of any other reason for the Maker to spare him from the taint."

"There is neither rhyme nor reason to such things," Morrigan observed quietly. "'Tis only power and will. Your Loghain has both to spare."

"True…" Mara shook her head with a sigh. "He will live or die now as the Maker wills it. _My _duty is to prepare the rest of Ferelden for the Blight."

The girl seemed troubled and so she should be. The Cousland forces had been sent to scout four days ago, the day before she came to camp, and should have returned by now. Bethany, in quiet discussion with Leliana, suspected that Loghain had sent Fergus away to suffer an 'accident' because he believed the Couslands were traitors. If the thought had occurred to Mara, she wasn't letting on.

"Are you travelling alone?" Leliana asked.

Mara shook her head. "No. The first few units being sent back up north will be leaving in two hours. Alistair and I will travel with them."

Bethany smiled reassuringly at Lady Cousland. "I am sure everything will be fine."

"No, it won't. Not for a long time." The girl nodded briefly. "Maker with you both."

She picked up her pack, the Cousland Sword and Shield of Highever, and turned towards the north. Bethany didn't envy her the task one bit. To be one of the few voices of sanity in this Blight…

Resolutely, she turned to Leliana for a kiss. The darkspawn would soon mass for the attack. She should enjoy every moment of peace in the sun she could get.

…

Loghain stared into the flagon of ale, unable to stand the sight of a goblet or red wine after the Joining. He'd tried to sleep but the murmurs of the darkspawn were too much; so he endured, as he always did, and hoped sheer exhaustion would put him down. He'd sent two hundred troops and one of Ferelden's best young commanders into the Wilds all because of paranoia. And now Ferelden's fate might very well lie in the hands of a girl with a penchant for brutal honesty and the tainted son of Maric.

"If Anora remains Queen, you're the Teyrna of Gwaren," he told Cauthrien grimly. "If not, I need you to support Anora as much as you can."

"You don't trust Cailan?" Only Cauthrien, his loyal lieutenant, dared ask that question.

"I believe in having more than one string to my bow," the general answered softly. "Anora won't listen to Alistair and will likely dismiss Mara as a girl. I need you to convince her that the Blight is here, is real and must be faced."

"What about Rendon Howe?"

"I suspect Lady Cousland will be more than capable of dealing with him." Loghain sighed and drank some more ale. "I'm not comfortable with a Theirin and a Cousland travelling on their own, especially young healthy ones who have been through a lot. I can only hope that Mara keeps it in mind that the _best_ thing for Ferelden, should Cailan die and her brother survive, is for the Couslands to join forces with Anora. The girl strikes me as capable of putting duty before vengeance."

Cauthrien nodded once. "As you say, Teyrn… _General_."

Loghain smiled bleakly. He was still that, at least. "This is the last I can do for you and Anora. Duncan will brook no interference by a Warden in the political arena. And I've seen what his self-appointed enforcer will do to those who disobey his command."

The knight shuddered. "Brytta? I saw Ser Jory's corpse."

"He didn't stand a chance. Wardens do what they must but I suspect that dwarf would enjoy it." Loghain raised his eyes to Cauthrien. "Your sole duty from here on in is to Anora. I love my daughter, but she is no general and barely an adequate warrior. You must be her sword and shield now, Cauthrien."

The knight nodded, banging her fist to her chest. "It will be so, General. And I know your actions were to aid Ferelden, not weaken her."

Loghain smiled bleakly once more. Small comfort, but Cauthrien meant well. "I hope the Maker understands that. I truly do."

…

The mabari, unpainted since Highever, rose lazily from near the newly tainted pack leader's tent and trotted to where his human's new mate was making his farewells. Cu had remained in the background, one of the many hounds milling around, and listened very carefully to the human pack's conversations. Instead of acting with one mind like the tainted-monster pack, the great pack here was split into little packs, some of whom put themselves ahead of everyone else. He growled in shame, recalling his inability to articulate the treachery-smell on the Howe pack leader to his human because her sire was trying to mate her with a human she didn't really like.

"Cu!" greeted the tall human, one of the few who could speak properly. The hound accepted that his human had trouble learning the language because her voice was a bit too flat, so he relied on scent to understand her. "Ready to travel?"

_"The newly tainted pack leader has commanded the alpha bitch to support the bitch he sired, no matter what,"_ the mabari reported. _"He does not like the male she is mated to."_

Alistair – a strange name, but humans were odd like that – sighed in frustration. _"Yes, well, _I'm_ not fond of the bitch he sired,"_ the human answered. _"She threatened to kill me if I left the Chantry-pack."_

Cu growled. _"The tainted-monster pack threatens everything and the human packs kill each other!"_

_ "Welcome to human stupidity,"_ Alistair responded, shaking his head. _"My duty is to fight the tainted-monster pack. Your human will have to handle the other packs."_

Cu sighed. How could he explain to Alistair that he was Mara's mate? With the death of her dam and sire, his human was confused, but as soon as the mabari had smelt Alistair he'd known the member of the Theirin-pack was perfect for her. And if she was the last of the Cousland-pack, she'd need to have lots of puppies because two hadn't been enough.

The tainted human rubbed the mabari's ears. Cu would really need to find Alistair a mabari soon. Preferably female so he could refound his own pack.

So many things to do, so little time. Thankfully, humans had mabaris to manage things for them, because if they did it for themselves…

…Well, Cu only had to look around to see how that worked out.

Now, how to make sure his human and her mate actually got around to making puppies…


	8. Interlude: Cold

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I was mistaken in Salim Cousland, as it's really Sarim Cousland who was spared by Flemeth; well, in my head-canon, it's Salim. ;)

…

**Interludes: Cold**

"Mara?"

Alistair sat down by Mara's side, watching her feed dried grass braided into bits to the flames. Her gaze was elsewhere in that half-Tranquil manner and he wondered where her mind was wandering. Knowing the trauma of the past two months, anywhere from Highever to Ostagar. Once again she was without a cloak despite the chill of early autumn and so he removed the blanket from his shoulders to wrap it around her.

The gesture was enough to catch her attention; giant blue eyes glanced his way and a weak smile crossed her lips. He returned it and snagged the tag-end of the blanket to huddle against her. He was warmer than a scrap of woven wool, after all.

Around them a squad of soldiers, led by Loghain's trusted second Ser Cauthrien, slept or kept night watch. Despite Mara's best efforts, Leliana and Bethany weren't allowed to accompany them; Duncan needed his mage and the bard wouldn't leave her lover. Alistair didn't have much trust for the Orlesian Seeker but he had a little less for Cauthrien. She was totally loyal to Loghain and Anora, the latter having a few good reasons to eliminate the Theirin bastard.

So in the safety of the Warden camp, he and Mara decided to split off from the squad at Lothering and head straight for Redcliffe. Cailan's cryptic remarks about Eamon aside, the Arl was still the highest ranking noble not involved in this… mess.

"Once we reach Lothering, we'll turn west for Orzammar," Lady Cousland said just as Cauthrien passed by. "The dwarves are the ones with the most intelligence about the darkspawn and the Legion of the Dead can keep us informed of the archdemon's progress."

The knight paused before coming over to join them. "I thought your mission was to prepare the nobles for the possibility of Ostagar falling," she said, eyes narrowed warily.

"Arls Guerrin and Wulff are on the way there," Mara answered quietly. "From Orzammar, I can go to Waking Sea as Alfstanna is second in line to call the bannorn of Highever, then stop in at Kinloch Hold to gather the mages' treaty. I'm sure that by then you'll be in Denerim giving the Queen a full report, as she's more likely to listen to you than I."

"Ah." Cauthrien tilted her head. "You are putting the Grey Warden treaties ahead of Rendon Howe?"

Mara's gaze was bleak and cold as she regarded the knight. "I trust that the Queen will see the need for justice as the King does."

"We know that Teyrn Loghain gave Howe the go ahead to eliminate the Couslands," Alistair added flatly. "If Mara can set aside a grudge for Ferelden, I'm sure the Queen, a much savvier politician, can too."

Cauthrien barked a laugh. "If you'd been the legitimate one, Alistair, we wouldn't be in the mess we are right now."

"Well, I don't intend to claim the throne," Alistair pointed out. "Wardens don't carry secular titles without a _damned_ good reason."

"Like Loghain being our best general despite all he's done," Mara agreed coldly. "I have no idea what possessed him to believe House Cousland was conspiring with Orlais-!"

Cauthrien sighed, shaking her head. "Your family _was_ friendly with the Orlesians, Lady Mara."

"We were trying to build trade connections with them and Kirkwall, make the Orlesian and Free Marcher nobility see more profit in having Ferelden as a partner in commerce than as a conquered province, as my father explained it," was Mara's acidic reply. "Ferelden now stands alone against the darkspawn when at the very least, we should have had the Free Marches on our side."

"My lord was relying on the information Rendon Howe gave him," Cauthrien admitted tersely. "I think we can all agree that regardless of who's right or wrong, the Arl of Amaranthine must answer for his crimes."

"And he will, but the Blight must take precedence," Mara agreed. She shrugged off the blanket and rose to her feet. "Excuse me, but I need to be alone. Good night."

Alistair watched her stride towards the tent she'd been given, Cauthrien making sure that the Theirin bastard didn't share a tent with the Lady Cousland just in case an awkward relationship occurred that led to an even more awkward baby. He didn't bother explaining that it was rare for a Grey Warden to have children as the taint did strange things to a person's body. If Cailan _was_ sterile, then the Theirin lineage was dead.

_Maker damn you, Howe,_ the Warden thought flatly as he stood to seek his own bed. He wanted to hate Loghain with a passion, but while despising the man came easy, the fact he'd owned up to his sins and accepted atonement reminded everyone of _why_ the former Teyrn was a hero. From the looks of it, Rendon Howe had manipulated the ageing general for his own ambitions.

But still, losing him in the Wilds would have had a great appeal. Alistair knew Wardens did what they must, but where was the line drawn? Just because something was easy didn't mean it was the right or even most pragmatic way.

An owl hooted and Alistair shivered superstitiously. He couldn't shake the feeling off that something bad was going to happen at Ostagar.

_At least I can make more Wardens,_ he thought grimly, knowing that Duncan had given him a vial of precious Archdemon blood. But only one to three, so he'd need to be… careful in his choices.

If push came to shove and Mara was tainted, he'd make her take the Joining even if he had to pour it down her throat forcibly. He knew any sort of relationship with her was a bad idea politically. Anora would soil her drawers quicker than a forty-year templar at the thought. But he and Lady Cousland had a rapport, one that was sometimes the only thing that kept him sane, and he hoped was helping her too. If she told him that they were just friends, he'd accept it. She knew the nobility better than he. He also knew she was still mourning for Dairren in her way.

But the memory of the smile, weak as it was, flickering across her fine-boned face as he wrapped her in the blanket chased away the cold. She still flinched whenever any of the other Wardens entered her personal space, but never with him. In fact, Alistair fancied, she leaned into his touch. A gesture of great trust from one of the half-Tranquil. Mara also was unafraid to soothe him with a caress during a darkspawn nightmare. Since they were now in separate tents, he missed that and slept poorer for it.

At least they were two days out from Lothering. Mara had given them the perfect excuse to split from Cauthrien, though he wasn't happy at the idea of Anora being unsupervised. The Queen had all of her father's genius for strategy, a frank charisma that he lacked, and absolutely none of his scruples. Time and again Alistair had assured her he didn't want the throne. It had literally been beaten into him within the Chantry. He was no Sophia Dryden, to use the Grey Wardens to rebel against the Crown, in the unlikely event of him becoming Warden-Commander. If not for the Blight, he'd have requested a transfer to the Free Marches or some other part of Thedas where no one knew or cared who he was.

But Alistair knew life was never fair. It was a cold, cruel world. Yet he couldn't live within it without trying to hold a candle, a flicker, of hope like they did at the All Soul's Day feast. The Grey Wardens lurked in the shadows and crevices of the darkness beneath, their faint lights swallowed up by the endless hordes of the darkspawn. For some, like Jory, such a fate was horrific; for Alistair, it was a vocation more real than any the Chantry offered him.

For Mara, for Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan – even for Anora and Cauthrien – he would be a light in the darkness, a spot of warmth in the cold. He could be nothing else.

…

Lothering was subdued. Leandra Hawke welcomed them with a grim expression, readily accepting the message from Bethany that she lived and had survived to become a Grey Warden. There was grief mixed with relief in her voice, so thick that even Mara could hear it.

She was glad to be free of Cauthrien. The knight stayed at the Bann's manor, her squad quartered in the barracks, but Mara and Alistair took shelter with the remaining Hawkes. As per her advice, Leandra and Garrett were drying every scrap of meat they got and baking hardtack. So were many of their neighbours. Carts bearing the wounded and tainted had passed through to be given last rites at the Chantry before the mercy-strike was done, their pyres staining the weak blue sky with smoke and tears. Bann Ceorlic, of course, sat on his arse safe in Denerim. It was enough to make her spit in disgust.

_"The first to give, the last to take; the first to defend, the last to flee; our people first, ourselves last; this is the oath we must make,"_ she murmured. The Cousland Oath, written by Mather in the Black Age, confirmed by Elethea under Calenhad and spoken by each member of the family on their sixteenth birthday. For the most part, they'd stuck to it, though interpretations differed. Mather, no doubt, was chiding Elethea for surrender at the Maker's side while Ardal sat silently by, hands holding the Shield of Highever as he contemplated his failure to protect King and teyrnir. The same Shield hung on her back alongside the Cousland Sword, forged for Haelia, daughter of Mather, by the dwarves in the Black Age. She held some skill with the Sword but the Shield was blighted useless to her. If only Fergus hadn't been sent into the Wilds!

_And if that wasn't a furtherance of Loghain's paranoid designs, then I'm the bloody Queen of Antiva,_ she thought grimly. Mara may not have played politics, but she knew history and how easily inconvenient rivals could be lost in battle. She knew also that Alistair was still perceived as a threat to Anora's grip on the throne despite him being a Warden.

Two duties to balance, two threats to face. Mara had prayed Fergus would be able to take up the battle against Rendon Howe so that she could atone for her failure by serving the Grey Wardens. But the Maker wouldn't let her escape her duty to Highever so easily. The girl who spoke uncomfortable truths bluntly was being forced to face her own failures. She was called many things: half-Tranquil, cold of heart and calm of mind, uncompromisingly honest even though tact would win her more friends. But in reality, she was overwhelmed, scared shitless and desperately wanted someone else to take command.

Yet there was no one else.

_"You're likely Teyrna of Highever now,"_ Loghain had told her apologetically. _"I think you're strong enough to handle it. Ferelden will need people like you in the coming days."_

The back door to Leandra's cottage creaked as the former noblewoman emerged, sighing on seeing Mara stare unseeing into the gathering dusk. "Dinner's getting cold," the grey-haired woman said, probably for the tenth time.

"My apologies," Mara said, standing up. Leandra had abandoned her familial duty for love. She honestly wasn't sure what to make of that when she'd felt more relief than grief on Dairren's passing. Duty was a harsh burden.

"You're brooding too hard," Leandra observed critically. "I'm sure Ostagar will hold long enough for the rest of Ferelden to mobilise."

"And it is my task to prepare the nobility for the coming threat even as Rendon Howe poisons my family's name," Mara answered softly. "The Bannorn will need to stockpile dried meat, grain and cheeses-"

"Leave that to your elders, child," the Hawke matriarch advised kindly. "I'm sure Arls Eamon, Leonas and Wulffe can prepare once you've warned them."

It was bad manners to argue with your hostess even when she was being foolishly naïve. Instead Mara sat down, listened to the fervent grace delivered by Leandra asking for her son and daughter at Ostagar to be safe, and applied herself to the last hot meal she would have until Redcliffe. Garrett, pragmatic despite his swinging between sarcasm and aggression, had prudently slaughtered all their livestock and turned most of it into salted and dried meats. To put it kindly, Leandra was… sheltered.

At least the woman could passably cook. Mara ate the thick stew and tough flatbread gratefully even as Alistair devoured his share. He'd need to eat at Dane's Refuge before they left to be fully fed. Cu was glad for the cracked bone as he'd hunted before coming into Lothering.

"So… Carver got a mabari on his arse, right?" Garrett asked dryly when his mother had exited the room to get some autumn apples from the cellar for dessert.

"So I'm told," Alistair answered with a shrug. "I'm sorry I can't give you any more information, but I was more concerned with your sister making it through the Joining."

"Huh, Beth as a Grey Warden." Garrett shook his head sadly. "I love my sister. But she won't last long, poor girl."

"Your sister is stronger than you think," Mara pointed out coolly.

"My sister should be here with us, not fighting darkspawn in a doomed battle," Garrett retorted. "Carver made his choice to abandon us. But I never expected Duncan to come and take my mother's only joy from her."

"His request for a Circle mage – oddly enough, a cousin of yours – was refused," Mara informed him. "Grey Wardens do what they must, Garrett."

"Easy for you to say, Little Miss Coldheart. Your family's not facing the darkspawn-"

"My brother was lost in the Wilds scouting for the King and is probably dead by now!" Mara interrupted icily as Alistair's gaze went hot with anger. "The rest of my family were slaughtered by Rendon Howe and I only survived because the Wardens dragged me away. I am the last of my family! As the last of the Couslands, I will be on the frontline of the Blight!"

"And yet you flee Ostagar, supposedly under orders to warn the rest of Ferelden." Garrett shrugged elaborately. "A real noble would have taken the fight to Howe immediately, not run away to a distant battlefield, then run back crying again because she couldn't handle it."

"If being a 'real noble' means being like you, Garrett Hawke, I think we're good," Alistair answered as Mara struggled to find a way to reply that wouldn't involve her stabbing the apostate. "Some of us put Ferelden above our own grudges."

"I only speak as an Amell sees it," the mage pointed out harshly. "Lady Cousland chose to flee. She should have stayed and fought or gathered her bannorn to attack Amaranthine."

"And Ferelden would die beneath a horde of darkspawn," Alistair said flatly, rising to his feet as Leandra entered with a few apples in hand. "I can't speak for your brother, but it's obvious Bethany got your share of basic human decency in addition to her own."

How he found the words when Mara was struck dumb by a rage so pure, so cold, that it consumed her was a miracle from the Maker. She pushed past Leandra and ran into the night, collapsing under a tree and banging its trunk with her fist until her flesh was scraped and bleeding. Gulps of icy air filled her lungs, counterpoint to the tears that seared their way down her face.

Warm arms embraced her, Alistair's solid bulk steadying her in the maelstrom of pent-up grief and fury. His heat chased away the cold even as his presence kept the nightmares from overwhelming her.

"Garrett's an arse," he assured her softly, lips brushing her short hair.

"He's also right," she pointed out, finally finding her voice again. It had been a silent storm that consumed her. "I should be doing something about Howe."

"Leandra's right about one thing. Arl Eamon's the perfect man to deal with that bastard," Alistair murmured into her hair. "For all we know, Anora's ordered his head cut off and displayed at Fort Drakon."

"We won't be so lucky. Whatever evidence he had convinced both Loghain _and_ Cauthrien," Mara pointed out bitterly. "And I am the cold-eyed Cousland brat who never went to a feast without complaining, a dance without throwing up on Bann Teagan's boots or a Landsmeet without speaking out of turn!"

Alistair drew a little away from her. "You puked on Bann Teagan's boots?"

She nodded miserably. "Every time I'm near the man. I don't know if it's because I'm nervous as hell at social events or that his cologne is… _ugh_. Because the order of precedence means that the Guerrins come just after us, I always find a way to vomit on his boots."

"I'd pay to watch that," he observed with wry humour in his voice. "Poor man though. Have you ever told him?"

"Once. My words weren't the most tactful." Mara looked up at the Redcliffe-fostered boy in shame. "I said, 'You're making me sick'."

Alistair burst out laughing. "How'd he take it?"

"Better than his brother or my parents." Mara shuddered at the memory of the tongue-lashing her mother had given her. "I haven't seen him in three years."

"Well, I'll make sure there's a bucket. I seem to recall Lady Isolde owning an Orlesian silver champagne bucket…"

Mara, much to her surprise, burst into laughter. She knew that the Orlesian woman had made his life hell at Redcliffe. It seemed her Warden wasn't above a little petty vengeance. "Perhaps I should aim for her dress instead?" she suggested.

"Deliver me from temptation," Alistair observed with a grin.

Then his smile faded and he rested his chin on her head. While Mara was about the height of a male elf, Alistair was easily over six feet, though perhaps not quite the legendary six feet, nine inches of Mather Cousland. The male old nobility of Ferelden tended towards the Alamarri's hearty, solid bulk and even the women were usually buxom and big-boned. Her father and brother, tall doughty men, had carried plate armour with ease. Alistair's sheer height alone – and that slightly oversized nose with its sharp tip – proclaimed his royal heritage.

"I didn't want to leave Ostagar either," he finally admitted. "But I had no choice. Duncan ordered me. And your parents ordered you to leave."

"It doesn't make me feel better," she said miserably. "I want Howe's head on a silver plate with his balls as garnish. After I've hung him with barbed wire."

"I'll just settle for him dead," Alistair pointed out, quite rightfully. Elaborate vengeance plots were all very well, but better dead and buried than out there causing trouble.

"You're right, you're right…" Mara sighed, snuggling against the man's bulk. She'd inherited the Waking Sea's lighter, smaller frame, legacy of some forgotten tribal offshoot caught on the wrong side of the Frostbacks when the Avvar took them over. It was strange how the old blood ran true in the families.

"Do what you think is right," he finally breathed. "I don't see Garrett bloody Hawke hauling arse to fight darkspawn. Don't let him get to you."

"I'll try not to, but there are other nobles who will feel the same way," she pointed out.

"I'm fairly sure Arl Eamon won't," he assured her. "But enough of this. We should get some sleep."

"You're right," she repeated as he let her go with great reluctance. Duncan had hinted, more than once, it would be unwise for them to be together because of the political situation.

But she wasn't sure she could stay sane without him. He was the warmth to her cold, the brawn (and charisma) to her brains. Why, oh why, hadn't Maric acknowledged him? Even Cauthrien recognised his abilities!

Only the Maker knew what would happen because she didn't think they could be just friends. Not when they complemented each other so well…

_You came for me in my darkest hour. I will do my best to be there for yours,_ she promised silently as they walked back to the Hawke farm. Because Maker knew she could do nothing else.


	9. The Bitterest Day

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Ostagar and the Tower of Ishal… but with a twist. We never get to see Aveline as a true commander in the army, so I'm changing that. ;) And given the revelations about the Theirin bloodline in the comics, I can imagine Morrigan and Flemeth being very interested in Alistair (especially for the Dark Ritual)…

…

**The Bitterest Day**

Loghain sighed in relief as the gates closed behind Cailan and half of the army. He was glad that the King had finally seen reason; it had only taken a delirious scout bearing the Highever crest to stumble into camp, warning of the horde deeper in the Wilds. Well, that and Duncan telling him that if the boy got tainted, he didn't have the supplies for another Joining. The last precious few drops of archdemon blood had been entrusted to Alistair as he sped north in search of the treaties, just in case the worst happened at Ostagar and more Wardens needed to be made. If Maric's bastard was wise, he'd choose only the best and strongest. If Mara Cousland was wise, she would emphasise the dangers of the Blight over what Rendon Howe had done.

_I have spared what I can,_ the general thought grimly as he felt the taint roil in his blood. Duncan had dispatched Daveth, Bethany and that Seeker Leliana with the army, pointing out that he had twenty veteran Wardens – and Brytta, who was easily worth five good men in a fight – still here.

"So Fergus Cousland is lost?" Duncan asked behind him, only the mildest edge to his gravelled voice.

"Short of the Witch of the Wilds rescuing him, yes," Loghain admitted regretfully. He still thought there was never smoke without fire when it came to Howe's evidence – it had been good, even Anora had believed it – but perhaps the treason had been unintentional. Mara's arguments about increased trade had certainly been good ones; the elder Couslands, unfamiliar with Orlesian guile, may have been relatively innocent dupes while eighteen-year-old Mara was entirely so. Howe's bias was certain to increase his willingness to present evidence in the worst possible way… But it had been confirmed, from a separate source, the Couslands had carried messages to the Empress. On whose command if not their own ambition? Perhaps it was Antivan; they'd married into the d'Antivas, after all.

But on a military basis, the destruction of Highever and the loss of the Cousland forces were nothing short of a disaster. And Loghain really only had himself to blame.

"I don't want to be you if you survive the Blight," the Warden-Commander finally observed. "Even if Mara sets aside any sort of feud personally, the bannorn of Highever will want your head on a platter."

"If I survive the Blight and we have saved Ferelden, they can have it," Loghain responded sincerely. "All that I am, all I have done, has been for Ferelden."

Duncan shook his head slowly. "No. All you've done these past few years is refuse to admit that Maric is gone. Cailan's not perfect, but how much of his recent behaviour and antipathy towards Anora is because of you trying to make him another Maric?"

A few days ago, Loghain would have gone for his sword at the rebuke in Duncan's words. But now he remembered that Duncan too had been Maric's friend. "Cailan was spoilt rotten," he answered instead. "I merely tried to make him grow up."

"Like you did Maric?" the Warden-Commander asked with deceptive mildness. "I know about Katriel."

"The elf was an Orlesian spy-"

"Who deserved, like everyone else, the right to defend herself in a fair trial," Duncan interrupted softly. "I don't excuse Katriel's actions by any means. They were reprehensible. But to manipulate Maric into killing the woman he loved? That was cold and cruel."

"Maric became the King Ferelden needed," Loghain protested, wondering why he was justifying himself to an Orlesian guttersnipe-turned-Warden.

"And a piece of him died. During our 'adventures' in the Deep Roads, we stumbled into the Fade." The half-Rivaini man sighed, eyes dark with bitter memories. "Maric got us all out. But I do believe it was the soul of Katriel who guided him through the Fade and granted him absolution."

Maric had returned to his duties on coming back to the surface, it was true. But the chasm between them, the divide wrought by the deaths of Katriel and Rowan, still ran deep albeit narrow. "What of that… Fiona?" he demanded in return, wanting to put the pressure on Duncan.

The Warden-Commander stared at Loghain, his dark gaze an eloquent promise of death. "If you speak ill of my oldest, dearest friend, I will make you wish that you'd died in the Joining," he vowed softly. "What was between Maric and Fiona was their business. Alistair was never supposed to happen and he most certainly was never supposed to know about either his royal or elven heritage."

"Eamon," Loghain grunted sourly.

"Indeed," Duncan agreed softly. "I assure you that Alistair has no wish for the throne. It's been beaten into him. In fact, it's something of a miracle I rescued him from the Chantry before he took vows, before the droll cheese-loving young man with a heart of gold was extinguished forever."

Loghain grunted again. "You're training him to take your place."

"I am." Duncan folded his arms, seeing into an unknown distance. "I scoured Ferelden looking for a successor as my Calling is likely near. I travelled to Orzammar, to Highever and Lothering. I never expected the best choice to the son of my oldest friends."

The former Teyrn grunted a third time. "Anora won't believe you when you say he doesn't want the throne. She'll think of Sophia Dryden."

"And should anything happen to Cailan, then she will drive Ferelden into destruction with that attitude," Duncan growled flatly. "Alistair is happy where he is. Why can't she see that?"

"Anora believes in being… prudent," Loghain finally confessed. "Alistair will just have to prove himself. Sending him off alone with Mara Cousland wasn't the best idea to reassure my daughter, you know."

"If anything happens to Anora and Cailan, Mara is the highest-ranking remaining noble in Ferelden," Duncan pointed out. "And I have faith in _her_ good sense."

Loghain might have responded to that but one of Duncan's people, an elf with Dalish markings, came running up. "Warden-Commander," he greeted tersely, not even panting for breath. "The horde's massing around that place Daveth called Griffin's Rock. They'll be here by nightfall."

Not even bothering to answer, Loghain whipped out his bugle and sounded the call to fort up. They knew this was coming; it was now time to last as long as they could to give the rest of Ferelden time to prepare.

Maker help them all.

…

Brytta devoured what might be her last meal, a handful of dried meat and hardtack, and offered a skin of dwarven ale to the captain of the unit she'd been assigned to. Aveline Vallen was smart, calm in a crisis and a fucking brilliant sword-and-board fighter; Loghain couldn't stand the sight of her because her dad had been Orlesian. Brytta determined several days ago that the general was a prick.

Aveline took a mouthful, and to her credit, didn't even splutter. "We're assigned to getting the beacon lit," the redhead explained tersely. "It will be ugly, Brosca; Tamlen reported Ogres in the force and they'll be throwing boulders at the catapults and archers on the bridge."

"People die. Duncan's hoping that if we can pin down the horde here, the archdemon will rise to deal with us and the Wardens here can put him down," Brytta responded, faking her calm. Small-scale violence and intimate brutality were things she was used to; this sort of battle was another thing entirely.

"That explains why Loghain's scattered you throughout the forces," Aveline mused. "Are you ready, Brosca?"

"Honestly? Nope," Brytta admitted quietly. "The archdemon, above all things, isn't stupid. And only the Stone knows how many fucking darkspawn there are. I won't lie to you; we're just buying time for the rest of Ferelden, maybe even the rest of the world."

"Why would the archdemon choose Ferelden?" the captain asked confusedly.

"As I understand it, least amount of Wardens, therefore the least amount of people who can kill it dead and keep it so," she replied bluntly. "Wardens can kill archdemons but we cark it in doing so."

"Ah. That… makes a hideous amount of sense." Aveline took another drink from the skin before passing it to some random soldier. "All we can do now is fight as if we'll see tomorrow and hope it will be so."

"You know, for a sword-caste you're pretty decent." Brytta's head shot up as she felt Duncan's taint nearby. "Hello, Warden-Commander's on his way here."

"I'm already here, Brytta," Duncan drawled behind her. She pretended not to be startled, though Aveline reaching for her sword was pretty funny. "How are you doing, Warden-Ensign?"

"Quietly crapping myself but figuring that killing the archdemon would be one pretty badass way to become a Paragon," she answered with a grin.

"If the archdemon arrives, leave it to the veterans," Duncan warned. "You'll get yourself killed doing something stupid."

"I seem to recall similar words from Leske about me doing the Proving in disguise," she pointed out dryly. "Now, I don't suppose I could talk you into a pre-battle fuck?"

Aveline choked on her hardtack as Duncan sighed. "You're incorrigible, Brytta."

_I'm in love with you, you silly twit, but you won't remove the stick from your ass to do something about it!_ Brytta knew that he'd dispatched the other Junior Wardens north because they had more specialised skills than her; her talent was simply raw violence. But she liked to think he also was fond of her.

"The horde will hit us in approximately two hours," he continued, dark eyes glittering. "When Loghain sounds his horn, it will be your duty to light the signal beacon to get Arl Urien's men to charge."

"We'll be there," Aveline promised.

"I hope so." The Warden-Commander looked out towards the Wilds. "Even if the archdemon doesn't rise today, if we can destroy this part of the horde, we will have bought time."

"Good." The red-haired captain rose to her feet. "Alright, unit! We are getting into position. Toast the gods, finish your drinks and make your farewells!"

Duncan sighed, expression twisting with pain. "Brytta…" He began, then looked away. "I wish I'd met you a decade ago. Things… might have been different."

"We're going to win this!" she protested. "When we do, then we can talk."

"I'll be in the anvil, the worst place to be." Duncan's smile was sad. "It is my place as Warden-Commander."

"I should be there watching your back!"

"You are my last reserve if the darkspawn horde slaughters the rest of us," was Duncan's flat response. "You are a squad in of yourself. Your unit was handpicked because Aveline is one of the best damned commanders in Ferelden. If we fall, your secondary objective is to break free of the horde and rejoin the rest of the army under Cailan."

She wanted to argue with him but knew that flat tone. She wouldn't get anywhere with him. "When we win, you owe me a night at the inn," she told him. That's what non-Dusters did, right, when they were courting?

"I'll buy the drinks," he promised. "Brytta… be safe."

"Don't die or I'll go to the Fade – where dwarves aren't supposed to go – and kick your ass."

"Very well." Duncan managed a smile before turning away. She watched him stride towards his unit, right beside Loghain, and felt her heart clench. They were going to survive this. She wouldn't have it any other way.

…

Through some grace of the Maker – or Loghain's own tactical genius – the plan was a success. They annihilated the horde sent against them down to the last Ogre, which Duncan had the Circle mages burn to ash, with only a third of the army slaughtered. Against the darkspawn, it was nothing short of a miracle.

But Duncan still couldn't shake the foreboding that something dreadful was going to happen. He paced irritably, listening to the archdemon's song, trying to decipher it for hints as the Old God's plan. Nothing came.

Loghain was standing on the top of the Tower of Ishal, using an expensive far-viewer to scan the horizon for any more threats. "That was too easy," he said as the Warden-Commander joined him. "That couldn't have been the entire horde."

"If it wasn't, where would the rest be?" Duncan asked. He knew something of tactics but it was Loghain who was truly master of war.

"That, I don't know-"

"Warden-Commander?"

Tamlen, one of his best scouts and the Dalish elf he'd recruited fifteen years ago, appeared at the stairs with a heavily armoured man – blazing with the taint – leaning against him. With a sinking heart, Duncan recognised the sigil on his cuirass: the Laurel Crown of Highever.

"Duncan… Teyrn…" croaked Fergus Cousland. "The horde… it's diverted through the… bottom of the Frostbacks. Bypassed Ostagar-"

"By the Maker and His djinn," Duncan swore. "We've been outflanked."

Loghain's curse was decidedly viler. "Do you have any idea where it's gone, Cousland?"

"Honnleath, maybe." Fergus coughed up black bile. The taint was strong in him… and Duncan had no lyrium for the Joining. "Perhaps Lothering. I don't-" His face screwed up in agony.

Aveline, who'd been raised to Colonel, breathed a soft curse. "What if Cailan's army is the target?"

Loghain hit the stairs running with the redhead on his feet, leaving Duncan, Tamlen and Fergus alone.

"Can the Joining save him?" Tamlen asked softly.

"We have no lyrium and he'll be a ghoul by the time we got more," Duncan admitted sadly. "Fergus-"

The warrior managed a smile, twisted and heartbreakingly sad, as the Warden-Commander drew his dar'misu. "'The first… to defend… the last… to flee'," he whispered. "The Cousland Oath. Only thing… kept me… here. Duty done. Tell Oriana and Oren… love them. Tell Mother and Father… I'm sorry. Tell Mara… she'll be a good Teyrna."

Tears flowed down Duncan's face as he buried his dagger in Fergus' heart. "I am sorry," he breathed, watching blackened blood drip from the Cousland heir's lips, bog-brown eyes widen then go unseeing. "I hope you join your family by the Maker's side."

Fergus was dead when Duncan laid him to the ground, shuddering with an odd mixture of grief, rage and regret.

"Loghain had better die killing the archdemon because nothing else will redeem him now," he finally said as he closed Fergus' eyes. "As for Howe… May the Maker and His djinn curse him for now and forever."

Then he ran down the stairs, Tamlen at his heels, to march north with the army.

…

It was Daveth who cried out the warning when the darkspawn attacked from the west.

The horde was two or three times the size of the one reported in the Wilds and smashed into the army like an avalanche. No matter how bravely they fought, Cailan's warriors were outnumbered and were soon overwhelmed. The Ash Warriors were first to die; the Circle mages the second. The horde then turned its attention to the main bulk of the army and the result was carnage.

Daveth exchanged looks with Bethany and Leliana. There was no point in staying and dying in a futile battle when this lot had probably already ground the army at Ostagar into sausage meat. So they ran west in the direction the horde had come, hoping they wouldn't get eaten. Because that would be… bad.

Morrigan met them an hour later, having concealed herself as a crow and scouting the roads ahead for Mara and Alistair. "'Tis a gruesome end they face," the Witch observed casually. "You can do nothing for them."

"So what do you think we should do then?" Bethany asked.

"Find the Warden-Prince and the Cousland girl. I imagine they will be past Lothering now." The Witch sounded like she didn't care about Cailan – which was fair enough – but was creepily interested in Alistair.

"Redcliffe will be their first target," Leliana confirmed. "Alistair was fostered by Arl Eamon and still sees him as something of a father figure."

"Well, shit. We're goin' ta seem like deserters," the pickpocket pointed out. "I mean, the battle was lost, but-"

"Claim that a Witch of the Wilds plucked you from the battle to help protect Ferelden," Morrigan interrupted lazily. "'Tis not exactly a lie. I _did_ use a spell of fear to drive you from the battle. 'Twas no point in you dying with the rest of them."

"We have to warn Lothering," Bethany cried out. "My mother and brother-"

Daveth swore under his breath as Leliana hugged the weeping Bethany. Fucking hell, he was going to have to make the decisions around here until he met up with Alistair. "Beth, love, I'm sorry. But Alistair and Mara probably warned them to begin with. We need to get to Redcliffe and warn the Arl."

"He's right," Leliana agreed. Morrigan rolled her eyes at the weeping Bethany. "I'm sure Garrett has taken your mother north."

"And if he hasn't?"

"Then on his head be it," Leliana said coldly. "My love-"

Morrigan made an impatient sound. "We dare not dally. The darkspawn will be done with Cailan's army soon enough."

"She's right. Let's get crackin'." Daveth forced himself to be terse though he felt a pang for Brytta and even Duncan. At least they'd died together, he supposed. "The King's probably carked it."

"Daveth… Is that… Is that the archdemon?" Bethany asked, voice stark with terror, pointing in the direction of the army.

The thief looked over and saw a dragon rise from the fighting with something in its claws. "I… don't think so," he finally said. "Looks too… not fucked-up and rotten."

"'Tis my mother," Morrigan observed dispassionately. "I wonder what she wants."

_Crazy old Witch becomes a dragon. Okay, put 'don't piss off Flemeth' on my list,_ Daveth thought as he watched the ancient abomination fly south back towards the Wilds.

"Andraste, guide us through these difficult times," Leliana prayed softly. "Maker, watch over us. Maker protect us."

Daveth decided not to tell Leliana that the Maker, who'd supposedly made the darkspawn, was a prick and that praying to him was useless. Instead, he turned away from the carnage below and faced the mountains.

"Can't do nothin' about it now," he said shortly. "Let's go. We got a kingdom to save."

And so the bitterest day ended.


	10. Lineage

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I'm toying with canon (the Architect's amulet and Remille's dagger stabilised the taint in Duncan in my head-canon) so that Riordan isn't quite yet doomed. ;) Rennio's character is also somewhat reworked, removing the Grey Warden element. And political complications FTW!

…

**Lineage**

To call the current situation in Ferelden a clusterfuck was putting it mildly. Riordan of Jader passed through Highever with his hood raised and eyes downcast, acting like one of the many broken townspeople under the hard gaze of Rendon Howe's men. He'd been born in this town to a tavern doxy and an incognito Grey Warden – even when banished from the country officially, there had always been Wardens coming and going – and so his dark hair and blue eyes passed unnoticed. But if he were heard to speak, the slight Orlesian accent he'd gathered from fifteen years in Jader would make his blood be spilt quicker than flies on shit. Until he passed through to safer lands, he would be mute, an easy thing to claim with the ragged scar across his throat.

Rendon Howe had spent up big for all his troops. Accents from Nevarra to Kirkwall coloured the trade-tongue of his mercenaries as they bullied the townsfolk and Riordan recognised the banners of four highly questionable mercenary companies at a glance. The Arl of Amaranthine (and self-proclaimed Teyrn of Highever) was digging in as the nights lengthened, fortifying his hold on the land from the Wending Woods to the Waking Sea. A full third of Ferelden, fallen to one man through treachery, and all around them the Blight raged unchecked, ignored.

Ships were only travelling between Highever and Amaranthine (officially) and only with Howe's people on board. So Riordan knew that he would either have to travel through Amaranthine – a risky proposition when Rendon Howe had met him a time or two – or south through the Arling of Redcliffe.

At the southern gate, he had to stifle a laugh at the wanted poster: a bad drawing of Duncan and a worse one of a curly-haired dwarf with prominent casteless brands. The dwarf, who had to be the casteless woman Brytta Brosca, had a higher murder count than his old friend. Given Duncan was proud of his competence as a rogue that had to be biting his arse a bit.

"-I ask one simple thing. Find that cold-eyed wench and bring her to me." A lordling with the Howe's prominent nose and dark hair was expressing his dissatisfaction with a squad of men in Amaranthine colours. "She is a noblewoman. With meagre skills at best in combat. Yet you have allowed her to slip from your grasp."

_Ah, Mara Cousland._ Riordan trudged along past the Howe – probably Thomas as Nathaniel was in poor grace with his father – and allowed himself a smirk beneath the hood. Even the weakest of the Couslands was more than a match for Howe's thugs, it seemed; not to mention the fact that Duncan had likely helped the girl escape.

"Something funny, peasant?" sneered one of the gate guards.

Riordan's hand itched for his daggers but he didn't dare move for them. He tilted his head back, allowing the scar across his throat to be visible. Then he smiled coldly at the guard, who was a short step above conscripted militia in quality.

"Shit, Henner, that's the Crow the Arl's hired!" hissed the other guard.

_Rendon _is_ reaching far afield,_ Riordan thought as he nodded to the guards. Hopefully they'd let him pass-

"Lord Thomas, the Crow's here!" called the man who'd insulted him to the lordling, voice quavering with fear.

"Finally," Thomas observed, turning away from the squad. "I was about to have these idiots decimate themselves. The Crow can do it for me."

_Show no fear. Show no hesitation. Or you will die._ Riordan drew his daggers and tilted his head questioningly at Howe.

"Kill the first that pisses himself."

A stripling, barely old enough for the peach-fuzz on his cheeks, was the first. He also cried and begged the Maker to save him.

Riordan had killed lads like this before, usually during the Joining when they either died from the taint or refused to drink it. On the streets of Jader, before he'd been recruited into the Grey Wardens, he'd fought with and against boys of a similar age. He would never know if this boy had participated in the atrocities at Castle Cousland or was simply hauled up from the family farm one day.

Death by a dagger now was more merciful than demise from darkspawn taint. Yet he hesitated, seeing those big brown eyes widen pleadingly, remembering another pair in a darker face as he was handed the Joining Cup.

"Some Crow you are," Thomas Howe muttered.

"Our fee, dear friend, does not include random executions," observed an Antivan voice coldly. "You will need to pay us for every time we kill."

"My father's paying you enough already!" Thomas complained.

"Your father requires many deaths," countered the clean-shaven, iron-haired Antivan man who sauntered into Riordan's field of vision. "Therefore we charge accordingly."

_What are you doing here, d'Antiva?_ Riordan wondered. If anything, the Master Crow should be trying to murder every Howe in sight.

Thomas Howe rummaged in his beltpouch and tossed a few coppers at Rennio's feet. "Kill the worthless sack of shit then!"

"My pleasure," the assassin answered as his throwing spike entered the lordling's eye.

He was dead by the time Riordan had fallen back-to-back with the Crow. "Thanks," the Warden told him.

"Don't thank me," Rennio shot back tersely. "Saving you was convenient, nothing more."

But no one came to fight them. The guards stared at Thomas Howe's corpse in shocked silence before breaking and running. Only the stripling, still stinking of piss and fear, stayed long enough to offer fervent thanks before heading south at a more leisurely pace.

"One dead, three to go," the Crow breathed as he retrieved his throwing spike.

"I'm sorry for what happened to your in-laws, but now is not the time to indulge in one of your complicated Antivan vendettas," Riordan admonished. "We have a fucking Blight on our hands."

"I'm aware of that," Rennio replied. "However, Rendon Howe cannot be allowed to operate unopposed. He will also do his utmost to hamper the Grey Wardens. So in reality, my vendetta makes your order's life easier."

Riordan wasn't really in the mood to argue. Pragmatically, he stripped Thomas Howe of his coinpurse and jewellery, much to the Crow's huffed bitter laugh. "You know they'll be hunting _you_ now," d'Antiva pointed out.

"No, they'll be hunting two Antivan Crows. I pity the man I resemble."

"Taliesen? Don't bother." Rennio chuckled darkly. "If he is strong enough to become Master, he will survive. But so far that man has ridden on the coattails of his friend Zevran."

Riordan didn't care about Crow politics. He needed to get out of Highever as soon as possible. Why couldn't Ferelden have more fucking horses? "Happy hunting," he wished the Antivan sardonically.

"Same to you," Rennio replied with a mocking half-bow. "Try not to die. You're prettier than your friend Duncan."

_Bastard,_ the Fereldanais man thought bitterly as he turned away from the assassin. He had a long walk ahead of him.

…

"What in Andraste's name is going on?"

They were a half-day's walk from Redcliffe when the first corpse was sighted. Impaled on a crude stake, the rotting figure was barely recognisable as human and the stench was incredible. Mara, whose sense of smell was both keen and sensitive, had to fall back before she lost her meagre meal of hardtack and dried meat.

It got worse as they neared the village, Mara breathing shallowly through her mouth, and Alistair's expression was grim. "It's not the darkspawn," he finally noted after the fifth corpse. "No sign of the taint on the vegetation or in the sky."

Given he was the darkspawn expert, she had to take his word for it. "Demons?" she asked tentatively. The horror stories from the Chantry warning about apostate mages certainly contained similar carnage.

"Great minds think alike," Alistair agreed flatly. "Something of this magnitude… Definitely one of the greater orders of demons."

"Maker's breath… I want to see if anyone's left alive but I'm scared of demons," Mara admitted starkly.

Alistair's smile managed to be both reassuring and grim. "As a half-Tranquil, you're in a little less danger than most people," he assured her. "But if you want to stay behind-"

Mara shook her head. "No. I ran from Highever and Ostagar. I won't run from here."

To forestall any protest on his part, she pulled a rag from her pack, one that still smelt faintly of lavender, and tied it over her nose and mouth before pushing ahead.

They reached the bridge leading to Redcliffe Castle and her heart leapt to see a living person, though she kept a hand on her dagger just in case it was a possessed human. "Stay behind me," Alistair said softly as the redhead approached. "That's Tomas… but it might not be him."

"Thank the Maker! Someone's here to help!" cried the young man as he came running up. "Our messengers got through!"

"No, they didn't," Mara admitted regretfully. "Something killed them."

The hope died in Tomas' eyes. "We're doomed then," he said mournfully. "You'd better go before the demons know you're here."

Alistair and Mara exchanged looks. They had a greater mission to Ferelden… but they desperately needed Arl Eamon's help. "Who's in charge here?" she asked, trying to sound gentle when she was probably just monotonous as always.

"Bann Teagan," Tomas responded.

"Take him to us then," she commanded.

It was a bit of a walk down the winding path to the valley where Redcliffe Village was built. Smaller than Highever but just as prosperous because of the fishing, iron deposits and trade from Orzammar, Arl Eamon governed the Arling fairly albeit with an emphasis on his familial rights. Just like the people of Highever, who bore the signs of Cousland blood in their dark hair and sky-blue eyes, the reddish hues of rosy-pink skin and auburn-tinted hair revealed the strength of Guerrin ancestry in the villagers. In the oldest parts of Ferelden, you could spin and point randomly and find a member of that region's ruling bloodline in the crowd – albeit on the wrong side of the blankets, but still…

Around them the villagers prepared for a siege with the ragged hopelessness of those preparing to meet their Maker. Mara heard references to Arl Eamon's 'sickness', a rumour she'd first heard at Lothering while listening to gossipers at Dane's Refuge, and wondered if the two events were connected.

"Arl Eamon's sickness has to be tied to this," the Warden observed softly as they entered a Chantry filled with weeping fearful civilians.

"Great minds think alike," she responded, trying to bring a bit of levity to the grim situation.

Alistair's smile flickered before a tall, broad-shouldered man in heavy chainmail came striding up to them. Mara automatically reached for the nearest container – a helmet, of all things – but found herself smelling nothing worse than sweat and body odour from the grimy-looking Bann Teagan.

"By the Maker," breathed Arl Eamon's little brother as he embraced a startled-looking Alistair. "It's good to see you, Alistair!"

"And you, Bann Teagan, though I wish it were in better circumstances," Alistair responded, clasping the older man's arms with a smile. "What in Andraste's name is going on?"

"Ten days ago Eamon sickened unto death. Three days later we found ourselves under siege by the living dead," Teagan answered softly, looking around at the people crammed into the Chantry. "I think tonight will be the last of it for us unless the Maker sends a miracle."

"I don't know about a miracle, Bann Teagan, but you have a templar and a half-Tranquil here," Mara assured him. "If we can find the source of this, we can stop the siege."

"Lady Cousland?" The normally urbane Teagan managed to look stunned. "How-?"

"Duncan was recruiting in Highever when Howe attacked," Alistair said, golden eyes blazing with anger. "We dragged her out at the Teyrn's request."

"You are a Warden then?" Teagan asked delicately.

Mara shook her head. "No."

"Forgive me, but good." The Bann's voice was uncharacteristically grim. "But we need to survive tonight before any plans are made. You should flee the village while you can."

"No." Mara folded her arms, looking around at the Chantry. "What needs doing? I mean no disrespect, Bann Teagan, but the defenders outside are running around like chickens with their heads cut off. And you should be outside as well."

"I want to be but Murdock and Ser Perth won't allow it," the Bann answered with a sigh. "They tell me it will be easier to defend me in here. And if the Chantry is breached, we're all lost."

Mara took a deep ragged breath. She'd been trained for situations like this – well, sieges, not the whole attack of the undead thing – and needed to get things done fast. "So Murdock and Ser Perth are your leaders then?"

"Yes."

"Alistair, take command of the military arrangements. You are a Warden and a templar; I assume your education included close-quarter sieges against superior magical forces?"

"Yes," her Warden responded immediately. "What are you going to do?"

Mara's smile was crooked. "Boost morale, I guess. Figure out our medical supplies, get everyone who can't fight in here, and set up as many traps as I can. Stakes, caltrops, bear-traps if we can…"

"They come from the Castle and lake, my lady," Teagan informed her, sounding hopeful.

Mara nodded thoughtfully. "Line the Chantry doors with salt. With luck, it'll at least slow the bastards down to finish them off with bows and crossbows."

"We've enough for that at least, thank the Maker."

"Good." Mara pursed her lips. "Alright, we better get cracking. Alistair, we'll meet at the Chantry every hour to discuss plans with Bann Teagan."

"Of course." Alistair smiled at her and then strode towards the door, wearing his Warden armour with ease.

"I thank you," Teagan told her. "And… I am grateful you are alive, Lady Cousland."

With those startling words, the Bann turned to question Revered Mother Hannah about medical supplies and salt, leaving Mara to run around to try and organise things for a siege by demonic forces.

…

"Go away! We're going to die!"

"We will if you don't help us repair the armour," Alistair said coaxingly. "Please, Owen, we need your help."

"Tell Murdock to go fuck himself. If he won't send anyone to save my Valena, then I won't help to save the village!"

"If we survive tonight, I'll personally go looking for her. I swear on my honour as a Warden."

"Warden?!" The door opened suddenly, forcing Alistair to catch his balance as he'd been leaning against it. "I don't see any darkspawn here."

"We came with news for Arl Eamon," Alistair admitted. Owen was still red-faced and burly, though much greyer now.

"So you'll need to go up to the Castle then." Owen grunted and allowed him inside. "Your oath on your eternal soul you'll find my Valena and I'll forge whatever you want."

"I swear by my hope of a place at the Maker's side I will find your daughter, one way or another," Alistair promised with all sincerity. Poor man; the templar had played with the pretty Valena as a child.

"So, the bastard from the kennels is a Warden now." There was no judgment in Owen's tone, only gratitude. "You always were a good lad, Alistair. I don't know why I believe you, but I know you'll fulfil your promise."

"Then I can tell Murdock you'll work?" Alistair asked, his relief obvious even to him.

"Of course." Owen clapped the Warden's shoulder. "Go and talk to Perth. His knights have their heads up their arses."

"Don't they always?" Alistair grinned at the smith.

Owen laughed and shoved him outside the door, no mean feat when the templar was in heavy armour.

Ser Perth's men wanted holy symbols blessed by the Revered Mother; Mara was already up there talking about barrels of oil on the barricades as Cu marked his territory on one of the great trees. Alistair regretfully told the red-haired commander, grandson of a Guerrin bastard, about Jory's death at Ostagar. He fibbed a lot about that one. Nobody needed to know one of the Wardens was a dagger-happy one-woman army.

"Alistair, how much coin do you have?" Mara asked. "The merchant Dwyn's refusing to fight unless he's paid."

Alistair cracked his knuckles. "Let me deal with that, my lady."

The threat of the Right of Conscription was enough to get Dwyn out of his house; the dwarf was far from beloved in Redcliffe and no one would defend him. The dark glare he gave Alistair as he exited the building promised a lifetime of jacked-up prices.

"Oh my. A qunari blade!" Mara, bless her little cotton socks, had deftly picked the merchant's strongbox. "Do you know the antaam, the qunari army, believes that each soldier's weapon holds his soul?"

"Great. Now only if we had the qunari soldier with it," Alistair quipped as he grabbed the medical supplies stashed in here.

Mara laughed softly and slid the sword back into its sheath. "I wonder how he got it. The qunari have special emissaries called Taarbas who travel around, collecting the fallen tools of those who die far from home. It's rare to find one south of Tevinter."

"I didn't know you knew anything about the Qun," Alistair observed curiously as they left Dwyn's house.

"I like to read… and a few years ago, the certainty of the Qun, everything and everyone having their place, appealed to me," she admitted, relocking the door with the key she'd palmed from Dwyn. "But… I am a Cousland of Highever. My place is protecting my people."

_She'll make an amazing Teyrna if Fergus is dead,_ Alistair thought as he followed the little blonde back to the Chantry to sweet-talk Revered Mother Hannah into blessing some amulets for Ser Perth's men. _More nobles should be like her._

The Revered Mother was reluctant until Mara pointed out that the Maker helped those who helped themselves and Andraste knew they'd need to do a powerful lot of helping themselves tonight to survive. She handed over the amulets and Mara dashed outside, running them up to Ser Perth.

"If more nobles were like Mara Cousland, Ferelden would be unassailable," Teagan observed as they paused to have a quick meal of hardtack and water. "She reminds me much of Rowan, who I think would have liked her."

"She's stubborn, barely sociable at the best of times, opinionated, tactless and as subtle as a sledgehammer," Alistair agreed. "Told Cailan to his face he was a blithering idiot. But you're right. She's an amazing woman."

"She told me I made her sick," Teagan chuckled. "She meant my cologne, of course. But still, the looks on the faces of everyone at the Landsmeet was… amusing."

"She's half-Tranquil. Many of them have sensory… quirks, I guess," Alistair explained quietly. "For Mara, it's her sense of smell. It's keen, but incredibly sensitive."

"I figured that," Teagan said softly. "I stopped using the cologne."

There was something in the Bann's voice. Something that reminded Alistair of the way Mara's parents had spoken about her betrothal to Dairren. _Of course; as the last Cousland, she'd be even more of a marriage prize,_ he thought bitterly.

She was a noble and he a Warden. They meshed so well together. But… Alistair's heart clenched. She and Teagan would be perfect together politically. And he obviously admired her. He was kind, handsome and understanding…

"Mara was betrothed to Loren's son Dairren," he finally said aloud. "He died at Castle Cousland."

"Ah." Teagan sighed. "I will… give her space then. As much as I can."

_Well, that pretty much confirms his intentions towards Mara,_ Alistair thought sourly. But at least the Bann had backed off a bit.

Mara entered the Chantry, chewing on a handful of dried apples. "It's nearly sunset," she warned. "Alistair, I need you stationed with the knights at the crest of the hill near the Castle. I'll be with Murdoch in the village square."

Her face was pale and her voice had gone toneless, indication she'd entered what Alistair thought of as her Tranquil mode. She wasn't an emotionless automaton; she just tamped down on her feelings until the crisis was over and then fell into a spectacularly emotional crash and burn. She cried in his arms when that happened.

"Lady Cousland, you should be inside," Teagan urged softly.

"By that logic, Bann Teagan, so should Alistair," Mara retorted icily. "He is, after all, one of the few Wardens in Ferelden."

Murdoch entered before anything else could be said, though Teagan looked at Alistair as if to say, "Does she know?" The templar nodded and the Bann's lips pursed.

"I'm going to move the walking wounded in here," the mayor said gruffly. "No need to feed the demonic bastards."

"Good idea," Mara told him. "How low is the sun?"

"The sky is red as blood," the man answered. "Appropriate, really."

"Then let's get into place." Mara turned to Teagan and nodded curtly. "I will see with you with the dawn, Bann Teagan."

"And I you," he responded, far too warmly for Alistair's comfort.

But there was no more time. Sunset was here and their doom with it.

…

Somehow the night was even longer than the ones preceding it, when he was without hope, now that he had something to pray for.

Bann Teagan had ordered Revered Mother Hannah to put a draught in tonight's stew so that the civilians would hopefully sleep through the battle. And if it came to the worst, they would tumble into the Fade unaware of their demises.

He and the walking wounded able to fight remained awake, flinching at every cry outside. _"For the Grey Wardens!"_ Alistair bellowed now and then. The royal bastard had become a man worthy of Maric's legacy… but it was in the Grey Wardens. As Wardens seldom had children, the Theirin lineage would likely die with the elf-blooded templar.

_"Seasann an labhrais gan bhriseadh!"_ Mara cried now and then. _The laurel stands unbroken,_ he translated from the Old Alamarri. Even in the wake of tragedy, of Blight, the Cousland girl put others ahead of herself, turning that logical, brutally honest mind to the defence of her nation.

_I should be out there,_ he thought guiltily for the umpteenth time. Here he was, a warrior in his prime, cowering behind walls while a teenage girl fought to protect him.

"Your people are willing to die for you, Bann Teagan," one of the wounded knights, Ser Donnel, suddenly said in the silence.

"They are my brother's people," Teagan reminded him.

"Arl Eamon is very likely dead or at least incapacitated," Donnel answered grimly. "You must prepare for the worst."

Donnel was right but Teagan… was frightened. He wasn't a great man or a mighty warrior. He was a man, someone more at home in the apple orchards of Rainesferre than the Landsmeet. Eamon was the politician, the one with the wiles and connections to oppose Rendon Howe. What possessed the Arl of Amaranthine to betray his liege lord?

_The Cousland lineage, second in line to the throne, rests on the shoulders of a slim girl with the biggest eyes I have ever seen,_ the Bann reflected wearily. _For all her intelligence and courage, Mara is still inexperienced. The Howes would eat her alive… but I suspect Rendon never intended to kill her._

For the good of Ferelden, Mara Cousland couldn't be permitted to fall into the wrong hands. It was a pity that Alistair couldn't claim his bloodline now; he'd be the perfect husband for her, though Anora would have a fit.

_And the boy is in love with her._ Teagan sighed, looking towards the windows as the noise slowly died. Did it mean they'd won? Or were the demons slowly chewing on them, preparing for the final assault on the Chantry.

He was honest to admit that part of his interest in Mara was for political purposes. A match between the Couslands and the Guerrins would bind two of the oldest families together, strengthen the kingdom and ease any transfer of power should the Theirin line die out. But Mara had always spoken her mind and damned the consequences, her brutal honesty a surprisingly effective bludgeon. Teamed with a more diplomatic consort, she could smash through the self-serving stupidity of the court…

Used to the flattery and blandishments of the marriage-minded noblewomen, Teagan found that brutal honesty refreshing and even attractive. Others might be put off by the cold stare and toneless voice, but he liked to think he saw the sheer intelligence of the girl…

"Bann Teagan?"

Mara's voice jerked him out of his reverie; blinking blearily, he realised that the light streaming through the opened Chantry doors was golden.

"We won," she said exhaustedly. "The demons are dead. Well, the undead ones at any rate."

"Praise the Maker!" Teagan breathed. He looked down at those enormous eyes, red-rimmed and teary from sheer weariness, and resisted the urge to embrace her in gratitude. "My dearest lady, we are all in your debt."

But already the Cousland girl was shaking her head. "No. Don't thank me until we've found out what's going on in the Castle."

"We're in no condition to investigate today," Alistair said dully from the doorway. "We need sleep. Lots of it."

Then he collapsed and Mara was by his side in a trice, checking him for wounds. But it was simply the need for sleep because she curled up beside him and promptly fell into slumber herself.

Teagan removed his cloak and put it over them before going to see to the survivors. This, at least, he could do.


	11. Threnody

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Totally screwing with the Arl of Redcliffe storyline because… well… Eamon sucks. I'm giving Alistair more skills at reading people because I figure templars are taught how to read body language as part of their training to detect any signs of possession.

…

**Threnody**

Zevran dearly wanted to be somewhere else. A white sandy beach in Rivain with a group of dusky, sex-starved beauties would be a nice start. Or at least somewhere with less demons and walking corpses. At the moment he wasn't picky.

But no, he was stuck in a storage room with a maid scared out of her wits, currently facing the highest priorities on the list of targets he'd been given by Rendon Howe. One to kill (the disturbingly hard-eyed Warden in heavy armour) and the other to capture (the disturbingly cold-eyed noblewoman in gilded leathers). And it looked like neither was going to go down easy.

"Journeyman Crow," greeted Mara Cousland. "Can you fight?"

"Err, yes," Zevran asked in surprise. Given the lady's in-laws, he wasn't shocked to see her identity his caste within the assassins. What stunned him was the question.

"Good. Valena, go back to your father. The undead between here and Redcliffe Village are dead."

"Yes, Milady!" the girl responded, running out of the room like a deer in flight.

"Mara, judging by the recognition in this gentleman's eyes, I suspect he's here to kill you, me or both of us," Alistair Theirin drawled sardonically. Whoever this man was, he wasn't the naïve templar that Rendon Howe promised. In fact, he might be able to even give Zevran a desired death.

"Kill you and capture Lady Cousland," Zevran admitted readily enough. "It's nothing personal on my part, I assure you."

Mara smiled, the oddly flat expression sending a chill down the elf's spine. "We're here to deal with the abomination that sent an army of undead to destroy Redcliffe Village," she told him quietly. "You can join us or you can die now."

"You know about Connor then?" It hadn't taken a genius to figure out why Arlessa Isolde had hired the weedy, pasty-faced mage Jowan. It had been, in fact, quite a blessing that the apostate was around to take the blame for Zev's own actions. Well, aside from all the undead running about.

"Jowan told us," Alistair confirmed with a mirthless smile.

"Ah, I am not surprised." The assassin sighed. "Better to die fighting than trapped in a closet, I suppose. Though you do know I will be obliged to fulfil my mission once we are clear of this, right?"

"You mean _try_ to fulfil your mission," Alistair observed dryly.

"Well, I'm sure if I fail you will give me a marvellous burial." Zev rolled his shoulders. "Shall we go and kill some undead?"

The next half-hour demonstrated that Alistair might just provide him with the demise he sought, the Warden-Prince was in love with the Lady Cousland, and had a much better sense of humour than Rendon Howe. But a contract was a contract; Zev wanted to die, but he didn't want to die in the way that Crows who failed their duties perished. At least these two would end him quickly.

They fought their way to the Main Hall, Bann Teagan performing marvellously as a jester at the direction of the demon who possessed Connor. "Desire," Alistair observed grimly once the next stage of rampant slaughter, that of possessed guards, was completed and Bann Teagan knocked unconscious by Mara's pommel to just beneath the ear. She was a very poor imitator of the Crow style, which was to say she was adequate by Fereldan rogue standards.

"Alistair, you must save Connor," Arlessa Isolde begged. "He is just a child."

The Warden-Prince grunted, wiping off his blade. "He's also an abomination, Lady Isolde. I'll need to go to Kinloch Hold to get enough mages and lyrium to confront the demon in the Fade… and I'm not certain we have the time-"

"We will make the time," Mara interrupted flatly. "Forgive me, Alistair, but I… I see Oren."

"There is a… third option," Jowan, the apostate, ventured diffidently from the back of the room. "I know a blood magic ritual that can catapult a mage into the Fade. But… it requires a life."

"Oh, nice. In addition to poisoning Arl Eamon, you're a maleficar," Alistair spat.

"I'll admit to the latter, but you should look to the elf for the former," Jowan retorted, glaring at Zevran. "He came here, posing as a servant, and the Arl sickened shortly afterwards."

Eyes swung his way and Zevran sighed, shrugging elaborately. "Yes, yes, I poisoned Arl Eamon," he confessed calmly. "By the way, not even magical intervention can cure him. I made certain of that."

"We'll go to Kinloch Hold; we need to gather the mages' treaty anyway," Mara decided, then swore under her breath. "Of all the bloody Chantries in Ferelden, Redcliffe has to be the only one without a templar to keep Connor quiescent."

Isolde flushed in shame. "I-I didn't want anyone sensing Connor's magic, so I-I… persuaded Eamon we didn't need any."

Mara shook her head with a sigh. "Dammit. There's no hope but to pray Connor doesn't relapse. Burn every corpse in this place; at least that will lessen the amount of undead available for the demon to use."

"I'll… see it done," Teagan groaned, sitting up and holding his head. "By the Maker…"

"Teagan!" Isolde cried, dropping to her knees by the Bann. "I am glad you live."

"No gladder than I," was the response. "Forgive me for not speaking sooner, I… Maker, my head hurts."

"Sorry," Mara apologised. "But if Eamon is… dying and Connor a mage, you are the Arl-presumptive."

The Bann regarded Zevran with a hard gaze. "What of this Crow, Lady Cousland?"

"If I might be honest, you don't have anyone good enough to kill me cleanly," Zevran retorted with a smirk.

Alistair was regarding him intently, which was both flattering and disturbing. The Warden-Prince was really quite handsome. "Since you're in a divulging mood, why did you take the contract on me when there's an understanding between the Crows and the Wardens?" he asked with more curiosity than anger.

Zevran returned the gaze with a confident smirk. "That is none of your business, Warden."

"Oh, I don't know. When someone wants to kill me, I think it is." A lupine smile crossed those chiselled lips. "Especially when I have the power to take you away from the Crows."

"What makes you think I wish to leave the Crows?" Zevran countered.

"You've mentioned death thrice," Alistair continued, that wolfish smile enhancing the golden-hazel of his eyes. "You accept a contract against a Grey Warden, knowing full well that my order will retaliate. You throw yourself into combat without regard for your own safety. I look at your honesty about your contracts as an invitation for violence. You want to leave the Crows, but typically can only do so through death."

The Crow stared at him, ashen with shock. How did he know all of that?

"A templar is trained to read body language," Alistair explained calmly. "How to recognise maleficarum and abominations, that sort of thing."

"You want him for the Wardens?" Teagan asked, voice mildly incredulous. "What's to stop him from finishing the job once your back is turned?"

"The taint," was the Warden's calm reply. "A chance to have a life with purpose, a life with a certain amount of freedom. As terrible as his crimes are, Zevran has likely had as little choice in becoming an assassin as I did a templar."

Zevran was so focused on the tall, broad-shouldered warrior that he completely missed Mara circling from behind. He did, however, take notice of her dagger pressed against his throat. "I can kill you now or you can become a Warden," she told him coldly. "And don't think you can take the Joining and try to fulfil your contract. The Wardens will be able to find you wherever you go. And compared to Duncan, Riordan or Brytta, Alistair is a paragon of compassion and kindness."

"You're Conscripting me then?" the elf asked calmly.

The templar shook his head with an enigmatic smile. "No. I'm giving you a choice."

"A choice between a slow death in the dark or at the hand of a deadly sex goddess," Zevran observed with a faint smirk. "I have never had a choice before."

"Until I was recruited for the Wardens, neither did I," Alistair pointed out with surprising compassion.

"This man poisoned my husband, drove Connor to become an abomination and you would spare him?" Isolde asked incredulously, voice rising with each word. "How can you repay Eamon's kindness like this, Alistair?"

"Because for all I know, I could be the last Warden in Ferelden. There's not been word from Ostagar," Alistair retorted flatly. "Zevran's deadly enough to reach Crow Journeyman. I hear that's something only one out of four achieves."

"One out of five," Zevran corrected. "You know, your inability to hold a grudge is… impressive."

Alistair's smile was cold. "I'm used to people wanting me dead. However, I also want a way to track you in case you get the bright idea of delivering Mara to Rendon Howe."

"Tell me, have you two fucked yet? The sexual tension between you could be spread on bread and eaten." Mara's dagger pressed a little firmer against Zevran's throat, blood trickling from the scratch.

"Why, are you jealous?" the cold-eyed girl asked with deadly softness.

"Only if I am not allowed to join in, my dear Lady Cousland."

"I would advise that you make your decision sooner rather than later, Ser Zevran," Teagan advised grimly. "I will abide by Alistair's decision either way… but take too long and I will avenge my brother here and now."

Zevran managed a bitter laugh. "In my death, I get more respect and choice from my enemies than I do from the Crows! Very well, put me through this Joining of yours."

The Warden nodded to Mara and she stepped away. "Very well, Warden-Recruit Zevran. You have until sunset to make your peace with the Maker. I'll call for Mother Hannah if you wish last rites."

It was an odd kindness from this hard-eyed man. Zevran found himself regretting that such brilliance would die beneath the surface in a welter of blood and taint. He found himself regretting that in choosing a longer life, he had accepted a gruesome death.

"I don't suppose Lady Cousland will honour me with a last kiss?"

He wound up taking the Joining, for Alistair had both lyrium and taint to hand, with a bruised jaw and an appreciation for Mara's right hook. And because the Maker was a twisted bastardo, he survived. Ah well, one couldn't have everything, he supposed.

…

"You fucking cold-hearted bastard! They're fucking children!"

"They're potential abominations," Knight-Commander Greagoir responded regretfully as Zevran had to pull Mara back from clawing out the man's eyes. "It is regretful, but the Annulment must be performed."

"We need the mages for the Wardens," Alistair said flatly. "Dammit, Greagoir, you know procedure!"

"Most of the mages inside are maleficarum," the older templar countered. "I cannot spare the men to clean out the Tower."

"Fine, then we'll do it." Mara's voice was cold as she shook off Zevran's hand.

"If you go inside, girl, I'll lock you within until I see that Irving is alive… or the Rite comes," Greagoir warned flatly.

"If it saves one child from the Tranquility brand, it will be worth it!" she shot back. "I know how the Rite works. And you bastards want to make it… more humane!"

"Ah, you're… half-Tranquil." Greagoir shook his head sadly. "The image of the poor chained apprentice resonates with the ignorant. I assure you, child, that making dangerous or unwilling mages like you is a better fate than forcing them to endure the temptations of demons."

"Just send us in," Alistair told the knight flatly.

"Very well."

The trio had come to Kinloch Hold together as a refugee templar from Lothering arrived and were immediately assigned to watch over Connor. A scowling, messy-haired youth named Carver, the templar had apparently served at Ostagar but chosen to desert because of his sister being Conscripted into the Grey Wardens and his family fleeing north to only the Maker knew where.

Zevran heard the doors shut behind him with a clang that echoed with finality and shuddered. "This is a bad idea," he said to no one in particular.

"Shut up," Alistair said pithily. Now Senior Warden, the man was proving to be an insufferable tyrant and not in the way Zevran would enjoy. "No way but forward."

Mara's hound Cu ranged ahead, scouting for trouble, but soon they found a group of mages huddling behind a barrier. One of them, a stately grey-haired woman, destroyed a rage demon with a single gesture. Incidentally, she had a magnificent bosom for one of advanced years.

"Stop-! Warden Alistair?! What are you doing here?" she blurted on turning around.

"Trying to save the mages because Greagoir sucks at his job," the Warden answered with a fond grin. "Hello, Senior Enchanter Wynne."

"Hello, my dear." Wynne smiled sadly. "They've called for the Annulment, haven't they?"

"Yes," Mara confirmed. "We need to find Irving. No way will Greagoir relent otherwise."

"Ah, Teyrna Cousland." Wynne's voice was sad. "I… was with the King's army. Your brother, child… I am sorry."

Mara's face screwed up with grief before smoothing into an absolutely blank mask. "Thank you," she said tonelessly. "We can't wait around."

"I'll take over the barrier," a lushly curved brunette with a beaky nose offered. Oddly enough, she looked a bit like Carver of all people.

"Thank you, Muirne." Wynne looked over the trio expectantly. "I hope you're ready. It will only get worse as we push on."

"After Redcliffe, nothing could be worse," Zevran answered. "Let us be done with this."

Several dozen abominations, maleficarum and a Sloth demon later, Zevran would be eating his words in the Fade. He was stretched out on the rack, being tested for his Journeymanship, and dimly regretting Rinna. Lost in the illusion, he lost track of time until a beautiful creature of blue light and flowing silver robes rescued him.

"Have faith," she advised before vanishing into brilliant light.

It seemed Mara and Alistair had been trapped too, the former clinging to the latter as they both wept once rescued. Zevran, uncharacteristically, decided not to pry into their Fade nightmares. Wynne, a glorious angel in the twisted landscape, led them to the lair of the Sloth Demon.

Zevran had ruder awakenings on defeating the monster, but he really couldn't remember them. Waking up on spongy tissue that Alistair swore was similar to darkspawn corruption made him vomit up his breakfast. Awkward, that, since he really didn't want to die on an empty nauseous stomach.

The rest of the way to the Harrowing Chamber was practically a walk in the park until they reached the crazy trapped templar who was ignored by everyone. Wynne told him that Muirne was alive and safe, that they would free him, but Ser Cullen laughed insanely and urged them to kill every last mage.

(Zevran reminded himself to make sure of the templar on the way back. Muirne looked like a very attractive young lady with a good head on her shoulders who deserved better than a crazy man).

Mara, as the weakest combatant, read the Litany of Adralla as the rest combatted Uldred the Pride abomination. It was a long, ugly battle but in the end, Wynne smashed his head in with a fist of stone. Zevran immediately resolved never to bother her just in case she decided to aim said stonefist spell lower at body parts he valued dearly.

Wounded, exhausted and thoroughly sick of demons, they descended to the Tower foyer and confirmed all those awkward administrative details that were involved in stopping the Rite of Annulment, getting the mages to aid in the Blight and finally having a few Enchanters – and Irving – agree to journey to Redcliffe.

In three days with the Wardens, Zevran had done more good – saved more lives – than he had in the previous three decades as a Crow. It felt surprisingly good. And he was being respected by people, not just feared. He'd need to get Alistair to recruit Taliesen; the two Crows could give their masters the finger and walk off into a tainted sunset.

It was a good dream.

…

They returned to turmoil and heartbreak.

Triggered by something, the Desire Demon possessing Connor had gone berserk, forcing Carver Hawke to put the boy down. Of course, being the only thing that kept Arl Eamon alive, the desire demon's demise meant that he too perished. Only Zevran's status as a Grey Warden kept him alive, though the fulminating glares delivered by the now-Arl Teagan made the man's feelings abundantly clear.

It got worse. Teyrn Loghain, now a Warden himself, had arrived at Redcliffe with the remnants of the army from Ostagar and grim news. Cailan was dead, the darkspawn horde having outflanked them and hitting the King's half of the army, then Lothering. Duncan, a rather deadly but sexy dwarf named Brytta, and an elf named Tamlen were three of the Warden survivors as repeated darkspawn attacks had finished off the rest. No one knew what had happened to people called Daveth, Bethany, Leliana and Morrigan.

It got worse. Rendon Howe was openly calling himself the Teyrn of Highever and had blocked the paths to Denerim and Orzammar unless they were to go due west towards Orlais. Mara had decimated Isolde's collection of Orlesian vases, raging helplessly as the news of what was happening to her people reached her. Arlessa Isolde was in no condition to object, having taken an oath of silence and entered the Chantry in contrition for her part in the Redcliffe tragedy.

It got worse. The news from Denerim was grim; Anora and Cauthrien were holed up in the city, trapped by Rendon Howe, and Loghain was all for going to rescue her while Duncan was demanding he fight the darkspawn. Zevran's ears flattened in shame as he thought on his part in all of this. He could feel the conflict roiling in the taint, in the shared consciousness of the Grey Wardens, and it sickened him to know that he'd helped destabilise a nation during a Blight.

Only the Maker could help them now because it seemed that Ferelden was in its last days. And it was (partially) Zevran's fault.


	12. Paths Divide

Note: Had to finish my Skyrim story to get back to this one. Trigger warning: discussion of past suicidal thoughts.

…

**Paths Divide**

"You left the King to die!"

"Yeah, an' ya didn't think the archdemon was smart enough ta fuckin' split the horde an' wipe out an army, so fuck ya!"

"Enough!" Duncan barked. Truth be told, he was glad Daveth and Bethany had the wit to run when they knew the battle was lost. It meant they had their eyes on the greater picture. But it meant he had to deal with Loghain's already uncertain temper after the news of Howe controlling the north and besieging Denerim reached Redcliffe. And by the Maker and His djinn, the preventable tragedy of Eamon and Connor Guerrin… Arl Teagan had taken Duncan aside and requested, in his quiet urbane way, for the Warden-Commander to remove Zevran from the Arling before he decided to execute the man regardless. On discovering the Antivan's Dalish background, he was going to send him to the Brecilian Forest with Tamlen in search of the nomadic clans.

"We cannot bring back the dead and Rendon Howe impedes us to the north," Duncan continued, his voice softer but no less hard. "Loghain, our first priority is getting accurate information on the likely location of the darkspawn. And that means going to Orzammar."

He turned to Tamlen. "Take Zevran with you to Clan Sabrae. Arl Teagan's ready to string him up."

"And rightfully so," growled Loghain. "I'm impressed Alistair had the wit to conscript him though. Anora never thought that highly of his intelligence, but…" His face spasmed with grief. "But he is Maric's son, through and through."

"His pragmatism comes from his mother, not Maric," Duncan answered flatly.

"Either way, it's a pity he'll die in the Deep Roads like the rest of us. I'm glad Maric's not alive to see his sons dead."

"Okay, can someone explain something to me?" Brytta suddenly asked. "Alistair and Cailan's dad was diamond-caste, right? So why wasn't Alistair considered of his dad's caste and raised with Cailan as a secondary heir?"

"Brytta, Alistair's parents weren't married, so he's considered what we call a 'bastard'," Duncan explained, wondering why the hell she wanted to know. "He was destined to be a templar but I conscripted him because he was miserable there."

"By 'miserable', Duncan means 'he caught me stringing a noose up in a tree outside Denerim'," Alistair interjected bitterly, entering the conference room lent to the Wardens by Arl Teagan. Much to Duncan's displeasure, Leliana had accompanied the Warden-Ensign. He was… not impressed with the Seeker because of what happened at Kinloch Hold. It was unfair to project his anger at the Chantry on the redhead, who was trying to be helpful, but he was certain she was hiding things from him.

Loghain had the grace to flush in shame. "I-I didn't know it was that bad. Cailan thought you were content-"

"Anora made my life a fucking misery," Alistair said flatly. "Told me I'd hang if I left the Chantry. Well, I figured the Void couldn't be any worse than a future of drooling idiocy, so I decided to hang myself and save her the trouble."

"You cloudheads are fucking idiots," Brytta declared and then looked to Duncan. "Shame we can't untaint him. 'Cause then we know there'd be two smart nobles around here."

"I don't want the throne," Alistair repeated for the umpteenth time. "Besides, topside we lose our 'castes' when we join the Wardens, Bryt. I wouldn't be a noble even if I was somehow cured of the taint."

"Fucking idiots," the dwarf repeated, standing up and walking out in disgust.

"That girl's always had a knack for assessin' a situation," Daveth drawled in dark amusement. "So's, Tam an' Zev are goin' ta annoy the Dalish, I assume ya goin' ta head off ta Orzammar with Bryt, an' Chantry Boy got us the mages. What now?"

"We don't quite have the mages, it seems," Alistair answered before Duncan could. "I just spoke to First Enchanter Irving. It seems the Chantry wants to stock up from mages in Orlais and the Free Marches before they dispatch anyone to our aid – and that's only after they've been… 'made certain of'. Because apparently Uldred was one of the mages at Ostagar and…"

"They are disregarding the treaty?" Leliana asked in surprise.

"The _Circle_ isn't. The _Chantry_ is," Alistair responded grimly.

The Seeker swore in Orlesian. "The White Divine will kill me for this. But it must be done."

She reached into her pocket, Loghain automatically going for his sword, and withdrew an ancient parchment that glowed with magical preservation. Duncan breathed in awe as he realised it had the seals of Kordillus Drakon the First, Jhimmy the Red (slayer of the second archdemon to rise), and the Chantry. "This treaty grants the Wardens the right to requisition any and all resources needed to fight the Blight. That… includes the Circle."

Duncan was speechless, Loghain's face was starting to purple dangerously and Alistair's eyes narrowed. "Give me that," he commanded; Leliana automatically obeyed.

The templar unfurled the scroll and scanned it, starting to swear. "Duncan! We could put the Circle under _our_ authority for… well… forever."

For the rest of his days, Duncan would never remember exactly what he said to Leliana when he exploded. But the gist of it was "If you ever keep secrets from me again, Seeker, I will return you to the White Divine in body parts regardless of your relationship with Warden-Mage Bethany. Oh, and we are taking over the Circle in Ferelden, and I will inform my colleagues in other kingdoms about this treaty."

_Then_ he enlisted Daveth to fetch Irving to inform him of the news. It took a while, as Uldred's rebellion had worn the old man out considerably, but he came with his appointed successor Muirne. The solemn, beak-nosed brunette – a darker tan than her cousin Bethany but with a figure to match – actually broke out into a grin when they found out. "You can't be any bloody worse than the templars," she observed in a low voice that had a bit of Nevarran lilt.

"Obviously, that means the templars are under the command of the Wardens too," Alistair added smugly. "May I be the one to tell the Knight-Commander? I owe that bastard a few."

"Be my guest," Duncan agreed, much calmer now.

Two days later, Duncan had the privilege and pleasure of watching Alistair inform Greagoir in no uncertain terms that the Grey Wardens were enacting their rights under treaty to claim guardianship of the Circle, confirmed by Leliana in her Seeker uniform. The lad – no, young man – was shaping up to be one hell of a commander.

It was a bright spot in a dark time as the remnants of the Wardens began to divide on differences of opinion. Bethany was quietly furious at Duncan's treatment of her lover while Loghain chafed to rescue his daughter from Rendon Howe; Tamlen was itching to warn his clan of the Blight and Zevran was feeling Arl Teagan's glare on him every time they crossed paths; Brytta wanted to get to Orzammar and Daveth didn't give a shit what they did. Even Alistair appeared torn between his duty to the Wardens and the troubles sweeping Ferelden.

Duncan felt relieved – but stunned – to see Riordan. He was less happy to discover that Rennio d'Antiva, assassin extraordinaire, had come to play in Ferelden. The man was owed a blood debt by Rendon Howe, but to have the Crows interfering in the country during a Blight… Madness!

They retired to Duncan's room in Castle Redcliffe to decide what to do next. Riordan's clear-eyed pragmatism – so very Cousland, though few knew of his ancestry from a bastard son of the House turned Warden – was invaluable like this. "It's a clusterfuck to be certain," his oldest friend but for Fiona confirmed over a glass of brandy. "But like it or not, my friend, we'll need to play politics. I've heard there's trouble in Orzammar too."

"Of all the bloody…" Duncan growled a sigh. "I intend to take Brytta for her connections and Daveth for his ability to skinwalk. If we can get an idea of where the archdemon is…"

"Indeed." Riordan's sapphire eyes were distant. "My contacts at the Orlesian Imperial Court are saying that Celene wears black for Cailan. They also speak of letters exchanged between monarchs, a promise made-"

"Near as I can tell, the Couslands bore messages for the King and Eamon may have tried to broker… something," Duncan interrupted. "It was enough to seal theirs and the late Arl's fates."

"And with Alistair in the Wardens, the nearest claim to the Mabari Throne rests on the thin shoulders of an orphan," Riordan noted. "Loghain is tainted by more than just darkspawn blood; Anora… well, she's competent, but she's just an older version of Mara now with the spectre of barrenness hanging over her. This Arl Teagan looks capable; marry him to the Cousland girl, make Anora Chancellor and be done with it."

Wardens had made Kings before in previous Blights. But Duncan was reluctant to abandon the neutrality built over two decades of hard work. "There are… complications," he confessed tersely. "Mara's in love with Alistair and he with her."

Riordan's curse was vile. "How the fuck did that happen?"

"He saved her during the massacre at Castle Cousland." Duncan sighed. He should have separated them, but by the Maker, they were an effective team. "I'd planned to conscript her as a steward. Maker knows we need them. But Fergus died and…"

"Alistair underwent the Joining… what… four months ago?"

"Six."

"Touchy, but he might still be fertile. Have him knock her up, make this Teagan Regent for the child, and keep Anora as Chancellor."

"A bastard of a bastard? That'll go down well…"

"Then tell Alistair to get over it. We don't have the luxury of coddling our people, Duncan."

"I know that!" Duncan heard his voice rising and took a deep breath to calm himself. "I'll send you with Zevran and Tamlen, old friend. I don't trust that Crow on his own."

"You will take Daveth and Brytta… What of Bethany, Alistair and Loghain?"

"I'll keep those three together. Alistair's a born leader and Bethany… well, she's fucking a Seeker. Leliana will be useless in Orzammar or amongst the Dalish. As for the Witch of the Wilds Morrigan, only the fucking Maker knows what she'll do."

Riordan nodded. "Loghain will head straight to Denerim, you know."

"Of course he will. I have to hope he's good enough to take Rendon down or that the Prince of Crows makes himself useful and assassinates that prick. Then the Landsmeet can decide who's bloody King."

Riordan smirked. "They should crown a mabari. Damn things run the country already."

Duncan allowed himself a chuckle. Mara's Cu was an absolute tyrant when it came to her. "The crown would look better on a dog's head than Rendon's," he agreed, pouring himself some more brandy. "So tell me – what's going on in the north?"

…

"_The Cousland pack-brother of the dark-skinned pack-leader thinks I should be pack-leader of the Fereldan packs," _Cu reported cheerfully after devouring the cheese Mara fed him. She caressed his silky ears, making him pant happily.

Alistair chuckled wryly and translated for Mara, who actually laughed. "You couldn't do worse than some," she observed. "But this… Riordan? He must be the son of the bastard sired on my great-grandaunt by the Orlesian chevalier who claimed to love her. Great-Grandfather had the boy trained to fight and then given to the Wardens as a favour. As the son of a Warden, this friend of Duncan's must have been conscripted."

"Riordan's a good man," Alistair agreed. He then told her the rest of what Cu had picked up eavesdropping on the Senior Wardens. Mara's fine-boned face grew troubled when he got to the political part.

"He's an eye for politics," she finally said. "I…"

Her face crumpled and she wiped her eyes. "I wish-" she continued before breaking off again.

She didn't need to finish. "Me too," he breathed.

"I would bear your bastards gladly," she murmured. "Maker forgive me, I wish there was a way to cure the taint."

"Me too," he repeated, regretting being a Warden for the first time. "Me too… love."

"The Maker has a strange sense of humour," Mara sighed, wiping her eyes. "The man I can more than tolerate being unavailable to me."

"Teagan's a good man," Alistair told her.

"_Dairren_ was a good man," she countered harshly. "It changes nothing."

She rose to her feet, face going cold. "I will do as I must. A Cousland always does their duty."

Cu's head suddenly shot up and he growled at his mistress. Then he looked pointedly at Alistair.

"Thanks for the vote," Alistair told the mabari sadly. "But I can't marry her."

Cu barked sharply. _"Idiot. She is your mate and you are hers!"_

_ "I can't give her puppies,"_ he retorted.

Mara stared at them. "What is he saying?" she asked nervously.

"He thinks you and I are mates."

Cu rolled his eyes, no mean feat for a hound. Even Mara got that. Then her face went still.

"I… have an idea. Come with me."

She led him, Cu in tow, to Arl Teagan. "Teyrna, Warden," he greeted with weary warmth. "Dare I ask what brings you both here?"

Mara's light voice was steely. "I am marrying him. There is no law against a Teyrna choosing her own husband."

Teagan blinked. "That's… abrupt. But Anora will see it as a challenge-"

He saw Mara took a deep breath, like she was preparing for something big. "Anora _may_ be barren because of the summer fever she caught at Highever in her childhood," she finally confessed. "My father didn't tell her because… well… it's half and half with the survivors. And later, with Cailan being confirmed sterile…"

Teagan's eyes narrowed. "That might have been the evidence Howe used to confirm your family's 'treason' with Loghain and Anora. Would he have known?"

"Probably. My father trusted his advice on political matters." The slender girl sighed. "Short of a miracle, nothing will cure Alistair of the taint and therefore being a Warden. Unless Highever's utterly depopulated, I'll be able to pick up any random urchin from the bannorn and prove they're Cousland blood. We're in a _Blight_, Arl Teagan, so _fuck_ politics. I'll marry where I please and work on dealing with Rendon Howe."

"Politics got us in this mess," Teagan agreed grimly. "I… will be honest, Mara. You're the best of the crop when it comes to Fereldan noblewomen and I had plans to court you the next time you came to Denerim."

Cu startled growling at the Arl, baring his teeth in warning. _"She is mated!"_

"Blame the dog," Alistair said wryly. "He match-made us."

"I… can tell." Teagan regarded Mara with open regret. "I cannot stop you short of violence, Mara, only hope that you have considered all the repercussions. If Alistair weren't a Warden, I would be the first to embrace the union. But as you yourself have said, nothing short of a miracle will cure him of the taint."

Mara sighed, expression twisting in anguish. Alistair's heart was breaking with hers as she fought between love and duty. He wanted this so badly-! "Maybe a compromise?" he finally asked. "Mara and I yearfast. If we're… fertile, then it's all good. If not, as I'm a Warden, she can end it with no fault to herself."

"That is… workable," Teagan finally agreed. "And truth be told, I would feel easier with the Theirin blood continuing, even if it is subsumed into the Couslands. Perhaps I'm being superstitious, but the old tales about Ferelden falling if the blood of Calenhad is lost…"

Mara wiped at her eyes. "If… Alistair and I aren't fertile, you will be the first man I seek as husband," she told Teagan. "But forgive me if I pray we are."

Teagan's mouth lifted ruefully at the corners. "I understand, Lady Mara."

"We'll have a quiet chat to Leliana tomorrow," Alistair observed. "That, of course, if she's recovered from Duncan's temper tantrum."

Teagan raised an eyebrow but Alistair refused to elaborate. It _was_ Warden business, after all.

They excused themselves shortly after that, Teagan needing to recall as many Knights of Redcliffe as he could and Mara observing that she'd need to see which bannorn of Highever survived. Cu, of course, looked quite smug about everything as he trotted on ahead.

"I knew Teagan wouldn't agree to the wedding," she finally muttered once they were in the quarters given to the Grey Wardens. "However, by asking for it first, it made the yearfast seem perfectly reasonable. It was a technique Rennio taught me to use as a bargainer."

She smiled sunnily up at him, the first unshadowed one he'd seen on her face. "Thank you, again, for working hand-in-glove with me."

Alistair watched her walk ahead, shaking his head in awe. Cu was right. They were an excellent match. Now to talk Duncan into agreeing with it…


	13. Interlude: Baubles and Books

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Forgot the Interlude this time around. *facepalm* Oh, and some eyecandy for olivegbg. ;)

…

**Interlude: Baubles and Books**

"I know ya there, Morrigan."

Flemeth had always warned the Witch about the Chasind skin-walkers, men and women who could share the senses of animals and possibly even control them. _"They will always know what you are,"_ the ancient abomination said. _"For they know the thoughts of beasts."_

Daveth, uncouth and crude as he was, just proved that. So with a sigh, she assumed her true form and walked into the flickering light cast by a banked fireplace where the scout sat, fletching arrows. Tomorrow he, the Warden-Commander and the most practical dwarf-woman Brytta would travel to Orzammar to (presumably) collect the dwarven treaty and scout the Deep Roads. She idly wondered if the half-Chasind had told them he could conceal himself and one other from the darkspawn; it had been the only way he and Bethany survived to reach Redcliffe.

Her mother had given explicit orders to stay close to the Warden-Prince and manipulate him into giving them what the Witch wanted. But even Morrigan with her inability to read people could tell that simple manipulation would not work on the templar; he was too disciplined, too selfless and too much in love with the Cousland woman to fall for her wiles. And, truth be told, the combination of Alistair Theirin, Mara Cousland and Loghain Mac Tir was dangerous enough she had no wish to trifle with it.

The trio being dispatched to the Dalish were… unsuitable. In addition to being too old, Riordan was… not interested in women and Tamlen regarded mating with a shem as little better than relations with the mabari. Zevran was too canny, too practiced in the art of seduction and most likely too deadly for Morrigan to dare play games with.

But Daveth, Duncan and Brytta… The Warden-Commander was too old and tainted, but fundamentally disinterested in the reasons why Morrigan accompanied them so long as she could kill darkspawn. Brytta didn't care what Morrigan did so long as she stayed away from Duncan, who seemed oblivious to the fact that the dwarf-woman considered him her territory. Daveth was… crude, but not from a coarseness of personality; he was easily one of the three most intelligent Grey Wardens and matched Duncan or Brosca in pragmatism, if not perhaps ruthlessness. He was reasonably presentable, bathed more than once a week, and obviously impressed with her 'assets', as Leliana liked to refer to them.

(Morrigan had reluctantly accepted a black leather corset and breastband from Arlessa Isolde's wardrobe after Bethany, Leliana _and_ Mara pointed out they would help stop her breasts from sagging with old age).

"So, how'd the book go?" Daveth asked in an attempt to make conversation. Morrigan found herself appreciating the notice he'd paid to the exchange between her and Muirne Amell, where the newly promoted Enchanter had traded a diary that belonged to Flemeth in return for lessons in shapeshifting. It had been… disconcerting… to discover that most mages were prisoners due to literally being captured as children, not by choice.

"'Twas interesting," Morrigan responded curtly. At the marsh-man's raised eyebrow, she found herself explaining, "'Tis… still something I am trying to understand. I cannot truly say more."

He shrugged and gestured to a spare seat. "Ya ain't here to watch me fletch arrows an' I noticed ya watchin' Chantry Boy, so it can't be fer me good fuckin' looks. How can I help ya, Morrigan?"

The Witch surprised herself with a laugh. "I am no fool. I… assume you know… my mother has plans for… the Warden-Prince. But I have yet to decide whether to fulfil them or not, as Mara is not one I would wish for an enemy and Alistair is not… interested."

"I've picked up bits an' pieces," the rogue admitted, lean brown fingers selecting goose feathers and trimming them with practiced ease. "An' ta be honest, I wouldn't wanta piss off Milady Cousland either."

Morrigan sat down, falling into silence as she watched him. Daveth, the rough tough thug, had taken command of the band that had fled Cailan's slaughtered army. The fires of greatness burned in him, needing only to be stoked to burn away the dross of indifference.

One thing she noticed about Duncan was his gift for choosing talented people. There were few Wardens remaining, but each of them was great in their own way, and even allies like Mara, Leliana and Teagan were gifted in their own right. Though one or two made the Witch despair of them ever learning pragmatism – Bethany was sickeningly sweet and Chantry-ridden and Alistair was still ridiculously honourable – the rest balanced them out. Brytta, in particular, gave _Flemeth_ a run for her money in the ruthlessness stakes.

Daveth suddenly snickered. "Don't ever tell Bryt that. She'd take it as a compliment."

Morrigan allowed herself a chuckle. 'Twas strangely restful just to sit here with someone who didn't despise her or thought of her as a danger. "She is a rather pragmatic individual. I do quite like her."

"Ya either love her or hate her," Daveth agreed wryly. "So, thoughts on the rest of 'em? Leliana's got as many secrets as yer Ma, bein' a Seeker an' all, an' Beth's a nice girl but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Loghain's a fuckin' prick for startin' all this shit, Duncan needs ta pull his head outta his arse now an' then, an' Riordan's the smartest of the lot of our 'commanders'. Alistair's honourable, but he ain't stupid honourable; he just needs ta get over hisself an' make a bid fer the throne so's he an' Milady Cousland, who knows a lot but ain't too political, can get married 'cause they're a damned good team. Dunno enough about Zev to make a judgment, but Crows are good at killin', an' fuck knows we need lots of those folk. Tamlen's yer typical arrogant Dalish elf with his head up his arse."

"You know them better than I, but 'twould seem your assessment is accurate," Morrigan murmured. "I find you remarkably pragmatic and one of the three most intelligent Wardens, for what it is worth."

The scout grinned and nodded. "Thank ya kindly, Morrigan. I like your company, an' not just 'cause ya're the only available woman around here. Leliana an' Bethie are more useless than tits on a bull in the wilderness an' Milady Cousland's way outta my league even if she wasn't sweet on Chantry Boy."

Morrigan laughed again. At this rate, she'd be jesting and giggling like the shoe-obsessed duo. But 'twas sweet what Daveth said in its own way.

Daveth smiled, a sly thing but not his typical smirk, and seemingly produced a golden rope necklace out of thin air with a flourish. "I found this in Lotherin'," he said gently. "Seein' as ya like baubles, thought I'd offer it to ya."

…It was the first gift she'd ever been given. If gift it was and not an incentive to bed the scout. "I… thank you," she answered, watching the thief to see if he'd try to coax his way into a night of sex with her.

"Welcome," he said cheerfully before standing. "Have a good night an' I'll see ya tomorrow."

Morrigan managed to make a farewell as she watched the scout walk away, a wiry man of medium height, dashing in his Grey Warden leathers, and wondered if all she'd ever learned of men from Flemeth was wrong.

…

Zevran was trained to perform with almost any individual, be they human, elf, dwarf or qunari, but he had to admit that his preference was for tall, dark and handsome. And the Senior Warden assigned to accompany him and Tamlen to the Dalish clans, a hard-eyed man with a soft Orlesian accent named Riordan, was delicious even by the former Crow's decadent standards. There was just one problem: the blue-eyed Fereldanais rogue was disgustingly in love with the completely oblivious Duncan, whom he'd apparently known for years.

Duncan seemed oblivious to sex in general. Brytta, a ruthless little dwarf-woman who would have risen high in the House of Crows, followed the half-Rivaini Warden-Commander around like an adoring puppy. The surviving women of Redcliffe spent much of their time drooling over the man's habit of practicing shirtless with his male Wardens. (Zevran appreciated the sight too, even if Daveth kept on giving him the baleful looks of the insecure). But alas, confined to his room (officially) as he was by the Arl Teagan (who held a justified grudge), Zev could do little to loosen up his Commander a little.

"Zevran?" Alistair's firm voice drew the elf's attention away from the delicious feast of Riordan and Duncan sparring in nothing but tight leather pants and boots.

"You're ruining my entertainment," he complained mockingly.

The templar's lips pursed as his eyes glittered dangerously. "Heaven forbid I should interrupt you."

The Warden-Ensign was doing his very best to treat Zev fairly despite holding a grudge. It was more than the Crow deserved. "How might I serve you?" he asked lightly, bowing to the Warden-Prince floridly.

"I need to know everything you can tell me on the contract Howe made with the Crows," Alistair responded, leaning his heavy bulk against the door. "And who else was hired, because I doubt you weren't the only one."

"I… wasn't," Zev admitted. "There is another of note – Taliesen, my friend. I-I would ask you Conscript him too, if possible."

"I'll make no promises, but _if_ he can be taken, and _if_ I and Loghain feel he can be trusted, I'll do my best," Alistair promised softly. "But Mara and Ferelden come first."

"Congratulations on your yearfasting," Zevran said with all sincerity.

"Thanks…" The Warden-Prince sighed, rubbing his face. "I've been thinking that it doesn't make sense for Howe to know about me unless Loghain mentioned my existence to the good Arl of Amaranthine… and Loghain assures me that he had only gotten Howe to deal with the Couslands. He tended to leave other matters to someone else."

"Given that you are working with the mighty General, I wasn't going to mention that," Zev murmured. "You will… have to work with Anora."

"I know." Alistair's eyes glittered. "I can even understand theoretically why Anora would want you to kill me. Hell, I can even forgive you in a way because you took the Joining without fear and have been a decent Warden since."

"Being a Warden is your vocation, isn't it?" Zev asked carefully.

"Yes," Alistair confirmed. "I want to protect people. Not rule over them or bully them, but help them."

"You are a disgustingly honourable human being who will die young doing something stupid," Zev pointed out, half in awe and half in disgust.

Much to his surprise the Warden grinned and nodded. "Probably. But I'll go to the Maker's side knowing I've done the right thing."

Zev shook his head. "You're insane."

"Probably." Alistair straightened himself up with a curt nod. "Thanks for the confirmation, Zevran. Good luck in the Brecelian."

"Thank you." The elf watched the templar leave, shaking his head. He just didn't get that man.

At least the pleasures of the flesh were simpler, he reflected, turning back to watch Duncan and Riordan spar. Whether it was sex or violence, the motions were the same: sweat and muscle and blood, force and sinew, grace and power. The Wardens offered both aplenty and Zevran resolved to not waste this second chance.

And since he was travelling with a fine specimen of manhood, he might as well enjoy it. And was Riordan ever a treat with that pale skin stretched taut over knotted muscle, silver-threaded dark hair falling freely past broad shoulders, sweat glistening as he closed in with Duncan and threw him to the ground…

"I hope you're making eyes at Riordan 'cause if it's Duncan, I'll have to kill you," Brytta interrupted with cheerful malice as she hopped up on Zev's bed to watch the two men spar.

"I will admit I admire Duncan in that manner, but I also know you will kill me, so I keep my appreciation of your Warden-Commander purely aesthetic and focus upon Riordan," he assured the chirpy little dwarf.

"Great! Duncan's not into guys, which sucks for Riordan, but since you are, that's good for him," she answered with a grin. Zev translated that as her blessing to go for the Senior Warden.

"So, I am given to understand you were recruited for copious amounts of violence?" he asked tentatively, hoping to make conversation and admire the view at the same time.

"Yeah. Snuck into a Proving, won it, then killed the sorry sack of nugshit crime lord who was going to make my sister's life hell," the Duster replied casually, as if disrupting the ancient traditions of dwarven society were no big deal for her. "How'd Alistair find you?"

"I, ah, poisoned Arl Eamon and started the whole demon thing," Zev admitted.

"Oh-kay, explains why Teagan keeps on glaring at you." Brytta shrugged. "Arl Eamon sounds like he was your typical diamond-caste, which is to say shiny, hard and wastefully expensive. I get the impression he was probably going to try and make Alistair King when Cailan got himself killed and try to rule through him."

"Alistair is not the sort to be ruled through," the elf observed quietly.

"Nope," the dwarf agreed. "Seriously, these cloudheads are idiots and they repeatedly insult the Wardens by treating them as the Legion of the Dead. Fuck that. The Legion's where you go when you've fucked up so badly you can only die to atone. Wardens are better than that, they're like nobles. Hell, I became Warrior Caste just as a Warden-Recruit."

"The Wardens _are_ the equivalent of the Legion up here, Brytta," Zev told her. "And even then, Queen Anora wanted Alistair dead just in case. I was to… ah…"

"Kill him and give Mara to that tainted-bronto shit Howe, I know." The stocky woman shrugged powerful shoulders. "Now he's besieging this Queen, probably because he'll have better luck with her than our resident diamond-caste."

"No one deserves Rendon Howe," Zev observed softly.

"True. And if I'm correct, she's our glorious general's daughter." Brytta hawked and spat into the rushes. Oh dear. She would need some lessons in manners. "Nice clusterfuck up here when we're supposed to be fighting darkspawn, hey?"

"Indeed," Zev agreed with a sigh. "Though rumour is that Orzammar is… conflicted."

Brytta grunted sourly. "King Endrin's up and died after his daughter Sereda got killed trying to take out her older brother Trian. Now it's Trian, who's an asshole, versus Bhelen, who's also an asshole but is my sister's patron."

"Let me guess. Duncan is claiming neutrality."

"I haven't _told_ that nug-headed idiot yet. He'll make me stay with you or Alistair to avoid bullshit conflicts of interest."

"I won't breathe a word to our illustrious Commander," Zev promised. He quite liked the Duster; she was unpretentious, cheerfully non-judgmental and happy to discuss – and able to appreciate – the art of murdering someone.

"Word about what?" Duncan rumbled dangerously at the door.

"Oh, the agreement we reached about him getting Riordan and me getting you," the Duster retorted cheekily.

"Brytta-"

"If I may offer my professional opinion, you sorely need to get laid," Zevran pointed out.

"I don't recall asking you," Duncan growled.

"I don't recall giving a shit."

"He's your problem, thank the Maker," the Warden-Commander told Riordan flatly before stalking away.

"He's right, you know!" Riordan called out.

"Fuck you!"

"I offered but you said you preferred dwarven redheads!"

Duncan's response was… untranslatable. Zevran wasn't even sure Riordan could do that with an octopus, a kitchen grater and a dead hurlock.

Zev admired the sweaty, sexy Senior Warden with a smirk. "I don't suppose you'd care to…?" he asked, letting it trail off.

Much to his regret, Riordan shook his head. "I fear not. We have an early start tomorrow. Be ready."

"Yes, yes, of course." Zevran sighed.

The rogue nodded and wandered off, presenting a very fine back and ass.

"You have good taste in men," Brytta said admiringly. "Just give it some time. He needs to be away from Duncan."

"You're most likely correct. I wish you luck in your campaign, my lady." Zevran bowed with a flourish. "May Duncan have the stick removed from his ass by the time you return."

"Thanks, Zev. You're awesome." She pecked him on the cheek – oddly endearing, given that she was a killer with a few murders that impressed even Zev – and trotted off.

He sighed and stretched lazily. Yes, this life was much better than being in the Crows. He would have to bring Taliesen into the Wardens for certain.


	14. Farewells

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Okay, trotting out another chapter. The proverb used comes from Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar books (appears in a few of them).

I can't believe that Brother Genitivi wouldn't have shared his clues with the Chantry. So yeah, Leliana knows they're in Haven. And also a reason for why the Chantry is so quick to react to certain events…

…

**Farewells**

"Long farewells give the enemy time to aim."

Riordan smirked as Duncan quoted one of three Rivaini proverbs that he knew, but the Warden-Commander of Ferelden was right. They were facing darkspawn behind him, Rendon Howe to the north and east, political trouble in Orzammar and only the gods knew what lay in the Brecelian. "You could switch missions," he offered; spending so much time in Orlais had made his idea of neutrality be far more flexible than Duncan's.

"No. You're the only one I trust to watch Zevran and Tamlen has always been a follower." Duncan sighed, looking out the window. "It's a shame Dorf'asha was dispatched to Weishaupt. I could use her Keeper wisdom at the moment."

"That Keeper wisdom has Wardens gathering in the Free Marches, ready to intervene if we fail," Riordan pointed out. "The Grey Woman will be here or not as she wishes. I just worry for you travelling with Brytta and Daveth."

Duncan looked wry. "Lady Morrigan has decided to join us."

"I suspect Orzammar is the one place she can act with relative impunity and have her poor manners chalked down to being a topsider mage," Riordan observed with a grim chuckle. "Brytta will stand by Bhelen, no matter what."

"I… know. And to be honest, Trian is an idiot. An honourable one, but still…" Duncan sighed, as was his wont during these troubling days. "I am troubled about Alistair and Bethany being assigned to Loghain. I know Fiona's boy will be in the thick of it because of his yearfast to Mara."

"If he gets that girl pregnant, Theirin loyalists will unite with Teagan and Mara to take down Howe," Riordan pointed out.

"But how long before he goes from neutrality to justifying being King for the greater good? I already know several people are calling him 'the Warden-Prince'."

"In a perfect world, Duncan, Alistair's neutrality would be beyond a doubt. But if it's the choice between uniting Ferelden and remaining a Warden, I wouldn't hold it against him. Even Dorf'asha would understand, I think."

"Damn the darkspawn." Duncan's curse was heartfelt and fierce. "And damn Rendon Howe."

"Indeed, my friend." Riordan reached over and clasped Duncan's shoulder, inwardly sighing. Zevran had been making a concerted effort to try and seduce the Senior Warden, and fully aware of the futility of his affection for Duncan and the Warden-Commander's own slowly weakening resistance to Brytta, Riordan was strongly thinking of taking up the elf's offer. "So, as you say, long farewells give the enemy time to aim. Farewell, my friend, and if I don't see you again in this life, we'll meet in the Fields of Grey."

Duncan smiled sadly and returned the shoulder-clasp. "And you, Riordan."

Riordan collected his shoulder-pack and exited the room. In two hours he, Zevran and Tamlen would go to the Brecilian Forest. Hopefully, it would be done with quickly and he could then join Loghain, Alistair and Bethany while Tamlen marshalled the Dalish clans. The longer they took, the more likely that Thierry in Orlais would gather the Wardens – and his cousin the Empress' chevaliers – with the excuse of saving Ferelden. Which would only confirm the Fereldans' suspicions…

_In this Blight, I don't know who my enemies are,_ he reflected grimly as he went to make sure Zevran was up and ready. _And that frightens me more than the darkspawn._

…

Loghain was pouring over the most recent maps of Highever and Amaranthine when someone knocked on the door; it was Alistair, clad in Warden-Commander's armour Duncan had retrieved from a cache with Maric's greatsword slung across his back. Though more experienced with a sword and shield, the templar was also competent with a greatsword and had been practicing diligently since Redcliffe was secured.

It was a brilliant – and unexpected – political ploy from Mara Cousland to yearfast the Warden-Prince by first demanding Teagan allow the marriage and then offer the lesser union as a compromise. Even Teagan recognised it after the fact, shaking his head in awe. But Loghain knew that Teagan was only working with him because it was pragmatic; the Arl of Redcliffe held a justifiable grudge over Eamon's death and that was much of the reason for his interest in Lady Cousland's allegiance.

"Anora sent Zevran to kill me even after I joined the Wardens and was thus removed from the succession, even if I'd had a place in it to begin with," the Warden-Prince said without preamble. "Did you know about this?"

Loghain sighed and set aside his maps. "I knew she had a contingency plan in case you found a backbone," he admitted wearily. "I can only assume your elven friend was that plan."

"'Contingency plan'." Alistair's voice was thick with disgust. "How many times do I have to say 'I don't want the throne' for you to believe me?"

Loghain smiled sadly. "Anora was trained to have the pragmatism Cailan lacked. I… think that if she'd borne your brother an heir, she would have felt more secure and left you alone."

"Or maybe she inherited your paranoia," Alistair observed sardonically. He'd inherited so much from Maric that it was painful to see and hear sometimes.

"Orlais is a threat," Loghain murmured.

"Believe it or not, Riordan agrees. That's why he was going to… ah… arrange the accidental death of the Orlesian Warden-Commander and take over as the most Senior Warden in Orlais, so that the order's people there weren't distracted," Alistair confirmed grimly. "We've probably got about six months or so to get the political situation under control before Wardens come from Orlais and the Free Marches to enact invasion on one hand and scorched-earth tactics on the other."

Loghain swore softly. "Anora has her faults, Alistair, but she's been ruling the kingdom since Maric's death. Make it now in her own right."

"Not when she might be sterile from that summer fever," Alistair disagreed. He smiled thinly as Loghain started in surprise. "Yes, I know about that. And that was the evidence Howe used to convince you the Couslands were traitors, wasn't it?"

"…Yes." There was no point in lying to this too-perceptive scion of Maric's. If only Cailan had had half the wit this lad possessed.

"Does Mara want the throne? I'll not deny she's the right to it and agree she'd have justification to hate the Mac Tirs. But she's just eighteen and really wasn't trained to rule, not the way Anora was."

"It's good to know what 'evidence' was used to frame my family," Mara said from the doorway, accompanied by Arl Teagan. The huge-eyed girl wore her gilded leathers but ink smudged her face. "I like to believe my father had the best of intentions in keeping the information to himself, as the sterility rate is half and half with the survivors of the summer fever."

"And I'm sure Teagan wants to believe Eamon had the best of intentions in trying to persuade Cailan to set aside Anora for the Empress," Loghain countered, but not as harshly as he could have. He needed Mara and Teagan to rally Ferelden against Howe.

"I believe it was to be for one of Celene's less intelligent but beauteous cousins," Teagan retorted softly. "Or so Eamon informed me."

"It doesn't matter. If Cailan signed anything, the Orlesians will have their excuse to invade above and beyond the Blight if we don't get our shit together," Mara observed with her customary bluntness. "I will accept nothing less than a full pardon for my family and confirmation of my status as Teyrna of Highever."

Even Loghain could hardly fault the girl that. Since coming to Ostagar, she'd remained honest and even respectful of him, though she'd become a lot curter since the revelations about the fall of her family.

"I still believe Anora's the best option for Queen, but I will abide by what the Landsmeet says," Loghain finally said.

"Actually, your duty is to do whatever I command," Alistair responded flatly. "This armour isn't for show, Loghain – I am acting Warden-Commander of Ferelden as Duncan will be taking command of the Orzammar and Frostback garrisons."

The Hero of River Dane swore as Teagan grinned darkly. "So what are my orders then, Warden-Commander?" he asked, just managing to avoid the heavy sarcasm. Alistair might be more competent than Cailan but he was still just twenty years old.

"Take the forces and secure Waking Sea, Highever and Amaranthine," Alistair promptly retorted. "If nothing else, I want the Free Marcher Wardens to have access to Ferelden. If Rendon Howe is focused on Denerim, believing the rest of northern Ferelden to be subdued, we will be able to cut off a lot of his support."

"If Delilah Howe lives, I will make her Arlessa of Amaranthine as is my right as the liege lady of the Arling," Mara added. "Nathaniel hasn't been heard from in years and Thomas is dead."

"…You'd leave Anora and Cauthrien to suffer a siege?" Loghain asked flatly.

"Yes. Denerim is our oldest, strongest city. But if a man's trapped in a rising tide with his leg in a rock, he cuts off the leg to save his life." Alistair's voice was hard. "I trust in Cauthrien's competence and Anora's ability to wheedle her way out of anything to keep Denerim intact."

It was perfect military sense. And damn the pair of them, they were right.

"Where do you stand on this?" Loghain demanded of Teagan.

"I stand with the Teyrna and Warden-Commander. I would also suggest obeying orders because I, for one, will have no compunction about hanging you, Warden or not," Teagan answered, his iron-hard anger audible.

"You've never made an independent decision in your life, Teagan, so don't start now," Loghain countered sarcastically.

Teagan lunged and before the older man could react, punched him twice in the face. Loghain tasted blood and felt it trickle from his broken nose, shocked that the Arl had lost his temper like that. Until Cailan left Denerim for Ostagar, Teagan had mostly spent his time managing the King and keeping him from pissing everyone off.

"You know nothing of me, Loghain Mac Tir. My apologies, Warden-Commander, for attacking one of your people."

"I think your actions spoke for a lot of us," Alistair answered softly. "Loghain, don't push us. Anora will stand or fall on her own merits at the Landsmeet."

"If she survives the siege," Loghain reminded him, spitting out blood.

"We need to secure the three other ports in Ferelden before Denerim," the Warden-Commander pointed out. "If Anora and Cauthrien are half as competent as you claim, they'll do fine against Rendon Howe."

"And if they don't?"

"Then you can avenge them," Mara said softly. "We should start with Waking Sea. Alfstanna's a competent Bann."

Loghain wanted to argue with her, but the cold impassivity of her face warned him it would be futile. Their arguments were logical even though he wanted to race to his daughter's rescue.

"Then be prepared to leave in four days," he retorted. "That's how long it will take to marshal everyone."

"We will be ready," Alistair agreed, golden eyes burning. Maker, but he looked like Maric.

"Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have maps to return to." Ignoring the pain of his face, Loghain put action to word, allowing the trio to see themselves out.

He would have to win this civil war and pray that the Landsmeet would see sense in choosing Anora. There was nothing else he could do.

…

"Are you sure this isn't a fool's errand, Leliana?" Bethany asked hesitantly as she readied her pack.

"Brother Genitivi had found clues to the Ashes," Leliana answered, though she wasn't certain this was a good idea herself. But they _had_ to find the Ashes. Her Sight had told her so.

Awoken in the trauma of Marjolaine's betrayal, the gift of second sight – limited glimpses of the future – was an erratic one. In Dorothea the bard had confided and the Revered Mother had immediately dispatched her to the Seekers, who had made it abundantly clear that while only Andraste had been blessed with true visions from the Maker, her talent was one the Chantry knew existed. _"Most Seers manifest in adolescence and are trained as holy oracles in service to the Divine,"_ Cassandra Pentaghast explained. _"Your power came late to you and you're a competent bard besides. So you will keep your eyes and become a Seeker."_

Leliana didn't regret it. She didn't have visions, only prescient feelings and the odd flash of image. One of those being that if the Theirin bloodline died out, Ferelden was lost. And if Ferelden was lost, the world would follow.

So she had to make certain that Alistair lived and bred. And to do that, she had to cure him of the taint.

_Even if the Ashes mitigate his taint enough to make him fertile, it should be enough,_ she thought as she and Bethany snuck out of the fortress. It would be a long walk to the mountains-

"Where the hell are you going?" Brytta, nosy as always, arrived just when she wasn't wanted.

Leliana knew it was pointless to lie to the dwarf. "We have rumours of a cure for the taint," she admitted softly. "I plan to get some and give it to Alistair so he can inherit the throne legitimately."

"And Duncan, the nug-stubborn bastard, would shit diamonds if he knew," Brytta observed dryly.

"Yes."

"Alistair loves being a Warden. He's a good one. But I've been hearing people saying that if the Theirin line dies, so does Ferelden." Brytta shrugged. "Makes sense someone like Alistair would strengthen your Stone."

"You won't stop us?" Bethany asked softly.

"Ancestors, no! This is one of the brighter ideas someone's had." The Duster grinned. "Me and Daveth and Morrigan think Chantry Boy should get over himself and marry Mara already instead of this piss-weak yearfast."

Leliana had to laugh quietly. Trust the political outsiders to understand better than most. "Thank you, mon ami," she told the dwarf. "I wish you luck in Orzammar."

Brytta's malachite-green eyes hardened as she grinned savagely. "Bhelen will be King, even if I have to conscript Trian."

For Brytta, that would be diplomatic. Leliana expected copious amounts of violence to occur shortly in the underground city. "May the Ancestors be with you," she said. "If you need help, contact Brother Berkel. He's a dwarven convert who's trying to preach the Chant of Light to your people."

"Not to be offensive, Leliana, but your Maker's kinda an asshole," Brytta answered with her typical bluntness. She and Mara vied for the title of 'Most Brutally Honest Person in Thedas'. "If he exists, he dumped the darkspawn on us just because a bunch of people broke into his house. That's a little excessive, even in my books."

Leliana couldn't fault her for that belief. "I should go before we're missed," she said instead.

"Happy cure hunting," Brytta responded before turning around and trotting off.

Bethany sighed. "We better go."

So accompanied by her true love, the penitent Bard set off on a quest to save the rightful King, even if he knew nothing of the mission…


	15. The Three Ways

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing, and thanks olivegbg for the gorgeous portrait of Brytta you've painted that is now the cover of this story. The Dalish Origin happened about ten, twelve years ago in this timeline; Mahariel is First Warden; Tamlen survived; and I am totally monkeying around with the Dalish treaty quest because, to be frank, it sucks more than Shapeshifting or Merrill in DA2.

Because the Joining is a bit… ambiguous, I'm going with either archdemon blood or refined darkspawn blood is needed.

'Seth'lin'len' literally means thin-blooded child and is my made-up phrase for a half-elven child like Alistair. I'm also trying to make Merrill not suck as much. Don't worry, she won't be a major member of the cast.

…

**The Three Ways**

Tamlen of Clan Sabrae was less than impressed to be saddled with the flat-ear Zevran. Riordan, he could tolerate as the man was a Senior Warden and known to the clans, but not only was the Antivan elf a shameless pervert, he was a murderer who claimed to have Dalish blood in his veins! He was _everything_ the warrior despised in city elves, many of whom he'd met during his years with the Grey Wardens, following Dorf'asha Mahariel when she was called to give Falon'Din's due and then remaining when she went to Weisshaupt, chosen as First Warden for some alien reason. She had asked him to stay, to warn the clans of the coming Blight.

How the Keeper had known it was a Blight was beyond him. But Tamlen remained and was now returning to his clan with a human and a flat-ear in tow.

Of course, it was Fenarel who found them first, two hours after they'd entered the Brecilian Forest. The blond scout stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Andaran atish'an, Wardens," he greeted formally. "Keeper Marethari's been expecting you."

"Collecting the treaty will not be easy," Zevran muttered as they fell in behind the kinsman who regarded Tamlen as a stranger.

"Are you implying the Dalish will not keep their promises?" Tamlen snapped at the flat-ear.

"Not at all. But judging by all the difficulties which have beset us so far, there will be some problem we must fix before the clans will honour the treaty," Zevran retorted dryly.

Riordan huffed in amusement, wisely remaining silent. That the human was attracted to Zevran was obvious. Tamlen thought the Senior Warden had better taste, but perhaps his unrequited love for Duncan made him desperate; Zevran had a veneer of the same roguish charm that once the Warden-Commander possessed before his responsibilities wore him down.

They reached the camp to find Keeper Marethari commanding Maren to heal the halla of some sickness. "But I can't," the tender of the halla responded tearfully. "They sicken beyond my magic."

Riordan swore softly. "Tamlen – I sense the taint," he murmured.

"Follow the source," the elf commanded. "If darkspawn threaten my clan-"

"It is not the darkspawn, though the monsters are drawn to it," Marethari interrupted wearily. "Do you remember the Eluvian, Tamlen?"

"The cursed mirror that forced me to follow Dorf'asha to the Grey Wardens. How could I forget, Keeper?"

Marethari nodded, ancient face weary with grief and sorrow. "I wish Merrill had recalled that, da'len."

Tamlen felt a chill run dread fingers down his spine. Merrill, sweet, slightly ditzy Merrill, had always been obsessed with their people's lore beyond even that acceptable for a Keeper. "She's brought the Blight on the clan."

"And more, I fear. She has delved into the blood magic."

Riordan cursed softly and even the flat-ear looked perturbed. "She will have to be dealt with, Keeper," he observed grimly.

"I know, Mi'din Abelas'len." Marethari found a ghost of a smile as Zevran stared at her, cocky demeanour forgotten. "You do not think, lethallin, that we would forget the son lost to us with his mother, then returned on the black wings of sorrow with a blade that dealt silent death, and then cast into the outer world again because the Crows could not be denied? The Keepers share knowledge, and a Dalish Crow is a powerful bit of knowledge indeed."

"Blade of Death, Sorrow's Child," Tamlen muttered in automatic translation to Riordan.

"I am now a Grey Warden," Zevran answered with a deep respectful bow.

"And you are in good company. Your First Warden comes from this very clan." Marethari sighed, golden eyes gleaming with tears. "And… you are right about Merrill, though it breaks my heart."

"Stay with your clan, Tamlen," Riordan commanded softly. "I am not sure you have the objectivity required to assess this situation."

The Senior Warden looked to Marethari. "I will not lie, Keeper. If this Merrill has even half of her wits left and is unpossessed, there is no… judgment… against blood mages in the Wardens. And we have lost most of our number."

"I'm coming with you," Tamlen retorted flatly. "Duncan implicitly put me in charge of the Dalish treaty; you're just along to keep the flat-ear out of trouble."

"Da'len, I must agree with Riordan. A number of our warriors are tainted and you will have to find a way to cure them, to make them Wardens," Marethari told him.

"That makes it more important to hope Merrill is salvageable," Riordan said. "We… don't enough of the ingredients for a large number of Joinings. But a mage can… substitute certain things." He paused when Marethari looked at him. "A tainted mage, my lady Keeper."

"Ah, I understand." Marethari sighed. "Tamlen, you know our warriors better than these two. Decide who must be… sent Beyond and who might be saved."

"Keeper, haven't we given enough of our children to the Wardens?" old Ashalle demanded bitterly. "First Dorf'asha and Tamlen, and now Merrill and whoever is strong enough amongst the tainted?"

"If you would see your people have some chance at life, the Joining is the only way," the flat-ear retorted. "If you want them to die Dalish, slit their throats now and save them becoming ghouls."

"Mi'din is correct," Marethari said sadly. "It breaks my heart to see the clan fall under the purview of the Friend of the Dead, but if it saves ten thousand other Dalish, it is a price well-paid."

Riordan bowed his head respectfully to the Keeper. "Zevran and I will go then. May the gods watch over your people, my Lady Keeper."

"Dareth shiral, Warden. I… will pray that this is ended."

Tamlen wanted to scream his despair to the sky. Clan Sabrae tainted because of Merrill's obsession? Him being forced to choose who lived and died? But he had no choice but to bow his head and obey the Keeper, because he wasn't sure if he wanted Merrill to live with the suffering she'd caused as a Warden or be put down like a mad dog.

The other Wardens left and Marethari joined him, offering a cup of heartsease tea. "Da'len, I would prefer the Orlesian and the Blade of Death risk their lives against what Merrill has become instead of one of our People," she told him gently. "And… we must speak. Change is afoot for the Dalish."

"Abelas, Keeper. I… was not pleased to be saddled with the… Mi'din." It was telling that the flat-ear had been given a Dalish name.

"I understand. But we have been too isolated from our kin in the cities, da'len. As I said, things are changing for the People… and as the Orlesians once proved, a Blight can be a time of opportunity."

That caught Tamlen's attention. "If you speak of which I think you do, the Orlesians aren't suffering a Blight," he finally answered.

"Not yet. The clans in Orlais report that the Empress has gathered her troops to the eastern border, waiting for word from Ferelden." Marethari sipped her tea. "Troops that had been drawn from the south, from Halamshiral."

"An opportunity, Keeper, but the Blight won't last forever." Tamlen thought of the Wardens Duncan had gathered. "With the Wardens we have left, the archdemon's days are numbered."

"Indeed. I have been told that… there will be chaos in the coming days, above and beyond the Blight."

"Who told you this, Keeper?"

"Asha'bellanar."

_The Woman of Many Years._ Daveth had reported seeing a dragon that Morrigan reported as her mother swooping down upon something and rescuing it from the horde that attacked Cailan's army. "The shemlen argue over who should be King when the land withers beneath their feet."

"I know." Marethari's golden eyes were wise. "The tainted wyvern, the seth'lin'len, the laurel and the barren queen. Dirthamen has shown me four futures beyond this Blight and all of them end with the Dalish in our homeland."

"Dirthamen or Asha'bellanar?" Tamlen challenged, years of scepticism from living amongst the Wardens rearing its ugly head. Then he flushed and muttered an apology; what was wrong with him?

"Both. And… it is good you think about these things. Too many of our people obey the Keepers immediately, but you have learned to think." Marethari sipped some more tea as some of the nurses went around, giving the more tainted tea to pass them beyond, saving Tamlen that terrible choice. The duo paused and prayed for them to find their way home to the Creators.

"If we can reclaim the Dales, we'll need support," Tamlen observed. "I, ah, take it that Maric's 'bastard' – who's a Warden – is the seth'lin'len?"

"Indeed, da'len. But it is my hope that Dorf'asha as First Warden, we shall have the alliance of the Grey Wardens."

Tamlen was already shaking his head. "No. She is… a Warden. She is of the People, of course, but it is the order that is her main concern."

Marethari sighed, looking at the dying clansmen being tended to by Ashalle, and poured out the rest of her tea. "She was born to be a Warden, Tamlen. It is regrettable but not unexpected."

"The attitude in the Wardens towards the Dalish is… complicated," Tamlen continued. "We are respected and treated as no less, but there is an attitude that we brought on the fall of the Dales by not helping in the Second Blight."

"I can understand that," Marethari confessed. "That is why we will need to find a new way for the Dalish. If we fight the darkspawn, we can spare Zathrian, Ilshae and the other Keepers for the battles in Orlais. And when it is done, we will have Grey Wardens of our People, and a refuge for the elvhen trapped amidst the shemlen."

"I was born to command our hunters under Elgar'nan's gaze," Tamlen murmured, understanding the shape of the Keeper's plan, born of necessity from Merrill's foolishness.

"Yes, da'len. You will have to live to become the first Warden-Commander of the Dalish." Marethari made a mournful noise. "It breaks my heart this is the road we must take. But it is the only way I can see a way forward for us and the Dalish as a whole."

Tamlen sighed and rose to his feet. "Then I will set about my task. Creators willing, Riordan and Mi'din won't be completely useless."

The Keeper sighed and nodded. "May it be so."

…

"Oh, hello! Are you a flat-ear?"

"I am Zevran Arainai of the Grey Wardens and I regret to inform you that you've made life… difficult… for your clan."

The lithe, green-eyed elf that flitted around the Eluvian chamber didn't look like a dangerous maleficar. She was using an arulin'holm to mend the broken mirror, humming tunelessly, and knife cuts marred her pale arms. Riordan had remained a shadow in the background, ready to strike if necessary.

"I know the mirror's a beacon, but the darkspawn were already here," Merrill answered sadly. "I'm sorry that my clan has been tainted. I'm trying to fix the mirror so I can help the clan survive the taint."

"There is but one cure and that is the Joining," Zevran told her, feeling obscurely sad for the well-meaning girl. "Your friend Tamlen was told to decide who would be strong enough for it on our return."

"You're planning to make me a Warden like Tamlen and Dorf'asha," Merrill responded shrewdly. "I'm not surprised. These things happen in threes."

"We pass no judgment against blood magic in the Wardens, though demon summoning is frowned upon," Riordan confirmed as he emerged from the darkness. "It is… interesting the mirror is tainted. I didn't think such a thing was possible."

"Oh, Duncan smashed it. That wasn't very bright of him, was it?" Merrill sighed and picked up a shard of violet glass, handing it to Zevran. "Take that into the next room. Eluvians were once communication devices and I might have an idea."

The city elf shrugged and walked into the next room. He was staring at the glass which held no reflection and swore when Merrill's face appeared in it. "Can you hear me?" she whispered.

"I see and hear you," he responded in shock.

"I can use this to talk to anyone with the taint!" Merrill said with glee.

"But how can you when you don't have the-"

"She… managed to make herself a Warden," Riordan muttered, audible through the mirror-shard.

"Oh, yes. A lovely Warden-Mage called Avernus told me how to cure myself," Merrill replied chirpily. "He's trapped by demons in a place called Soldier's Peak."

Riordan swore. "That place has been lost since Sophia Dryden's rebellion!"

"We have to go help him. He was ever so nice about teaching me Warden things."

Zevran, managing to get over his shock, nodded agreeably with the elf-woman. "We could take the Eluvian there," he suggested. "And we need a base."

"Duncan will have a fit." Riordan sighed. "But you are right. Avernus was said to be Warden-Mage at the time of the Dryden Rebellion. He has to be a blood-mage to have lived so long… or possessed. Either way, if we can make use of it, we shall."

"Thank you," Merrill said gratefully. "I should have gone with Tamlen and Dorf'asha. The balance would have been maintained as we all encountered the Eluvian. But Marethari kept me here and we now all must become Wardens."

"Falon'Din should have been given his due," murmured Zevran superstitiously.

"Indeed, Mi'din." Merrill flushed. "I apologise for calling you 'flat-ear'. That was rather rude of me."

"You're politer than Tamlen," Zevran reassured her.

"Tamlen never had many manners and Dorf'asha was a better First." Merrill sighed and looked at the mirror. "We'll need someone to carry this. Just… don't panic."

She cut her hand and brought forth a rocky creature from the earth, commanding it in elvhen to carry the Eluvian. "A rock-wraith," she explained as she bound it. "What happens when durgen'len can't return to the Stone."

"Brytta will just _love_ that," Zevran muttered as he entered the main room again.

"Duncan will love these mirror-shards," Riordan observed with a grim smile. "Instantaneous communication, even if it is at short ranges? It will be a powerful advantage for the Grey Wardens."

"Someone has to be by the Eluvian, preferably a Keeper," Merrill warned.

"If we take Soldier's Peak, we will have the base and you can stay there," Riordan assured her.

"Thank you," Merrill repeated simply. "Clan Sabrae has made mistakes and I made some of the biggest ones of all. I hope something can be salvaged from this."

"As do I," Riordan observed softly as they left the ruins, walking past the corpses of slain darkspawn. "As do I."

…

Half of Clan Sabrae had been tainted; of them, only ten were fit to become Wardens. Of those, only Fenarel who survived. But Riordan couldn't complain.

The Wardens were given special grey tents and set apart from the others as Marethari used a particular Dalish ritual to tell the other Keepers what was going on. Tamlen's eyes were hard and secretive as he glared at Merrill but he remained silent. Oddly enough, it was Zevran who looked the most troubled, offering to take watch so that the others could rest.

Riordan waited until Fenarel was drinking with Tamlen and Merrill sleeping – within a protective shelter in case someone decided to take things out on her, a reasonable concern – before joining him.

"She was trying to reclaim her lost history," the elf observed softly as Riordan neared. "And she has given us a mighty advantage."

"But she is a maleficar," Riordan murmured. "I know your concerns."

"Oh, I am not concerned. I have killed many blood mages. A little magebane and the problem is gone." Zevran tried to speak lightly, but Riordan could tell he was failing. "I am known to the Keepers… as the Blade of Death, the Child of Sorrow. I killed my mother at birth, did you know that?"

"I am told the same happened to Dorf'asha Mahariel. She said that being born at moon-dark from a dead mother dedicated you to Falon'Din, and therefore the Grey Wardens."

Zevran gave him a startled glance. "I-I was born under such… circumstances."

"Then the gods meant you to be here." Riordan reached over and squeezed the elf's forearm reassuringly.

He knew that his love for Duncan could never be requited and that it would never cease. But just because he couldn't warm himself at the half-Rivaini's fire didn't mean he could seek comfort elsewhere. Zevran appeared very interested and in need of some comfort himself, though Riordan would let him bring it up first.

"Thank you," Zevran finally said. "I am… an outsider. I am comfortable enough with Brytta, but she is in love with Duncan… as are you."

Riordan allowed himself a mirthless smile. "She will have a better chance with him."

"They are, to be honest, well suited to each other. I am also honestly taking my cues on how to be a Warden from her or you," Zev confessed. "Duncan is too… tender-hearted and Alistair too wrapped up in his honour and the Cousland woman. Bethany and Leliana… Well. Daveth is decent enough, but Morrigan… She plans something."

"I know," Riordan murmured. "Flemeth is pulling many strings."

"Indeed." Zevran sighed. "I am glad to be a Warden and I will free my friend Taliesen from the Crows. This is a good life."

"But?"

"I wish I hadn't come to the Dalish. It was bad enough when I was younger, still considered a child, but now…!" Zevran growled. "I am the Blade of Death and meant for the Wardens!"

"I would rather a killer during the Blight than some tender-hearted sap," Riordan murmured. "But when it is done, Zevran, you could be whatever you wished."

Zevran chuckled richly, seeming in a better mood. "Your words are kind, Riordan. We are both outsiders looking in; perhaps, some time when we are less burdened with… guests… we can keep each other company?"

Riordan found himself grinning. "I would like that a lot, Zevran."

"Good. Ferelden is too damned cold." Zevran yawned and rose to his feet. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Zevran." Riordan watched him leave for the tent, deciding to take second watch. Around the Dalish, they were relatively safe. If Tamlen wanted to drink with his friend, let him, because they would be going via Soldier's Peak next. He needed to set up Merrill and the Eluvian because things would only get worse from here – and the Wardens needed every advantage they could get.


End file.
